THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

FROM  THE  LIBRARY  OF 

JIM  TULLY 

GIFT  OF 
MRS.  JIM  TULLY 


FOR  THE  GOOD  OF  THE  RACE 
AN<D  OTHER  STORIES 


Copyright  by  BERT  LEVY 
Copyright  by  AD  PRESS 


• 

•*: 


"The  Old  Hcbrcu-  Student" 
From  a   Painting  by  BERT  LEVY 


FOR  THE  GOOD  OF  THE 

RACE  AND  OTHER 

STORIES 

BERT  LEVY 


WITH  A  FRONTISPIECE  BY  THE  AUTHOR 


NEW  YORK:    AD  PRESS 
LONDON:    AD  PRESS 


Copyright,  1921 


35 

L 

Contents 

PREFACE vii 

FOR  THE  GOOD  OF  THE  RACE      -  1 

THE  VACHER'S  DAUGHTER  27 

LENA  AND  JOE  41 

SPIKE  AND  RED  45 

ON  THE  ROAD -  53 

AN  HOUR  AT  THE  TERMINAL      -      -  57 

VAUDEVILLE  CAMEOS     -      -                   -  65 

AT  A  VAUDEVILLE  REHEARSAL    -  77 

THEATRE  PESTS                                 •   ,   •  85 

"FlFT^    AVENOO" 95 

WITH  GENIUS  ON  THE  HIGH  SEAS    -      -  103 

A  DAY  IN  A  BOAT  WITH  MADAME  MELBA  113 

MEMORIES           123 

A  DICKENSIAN  QUEST  FOR  PATHOS  131 

WORDS  TO  A  CRITIQ                                  -  137 

WRITTEN  IN  A  RESTAURANT  -      -  141 

LEAVES  FROM  MY  NOTEBOOK      -             -  143 

IN  A  POLICE  COURT,  RICHMOND,  A'A.     -  153 

ON  THE  ELEVATED 157 

PETTICOAT  LANE                           -       -      -  163 

PASSERS-BY 171 


858490 


DEDICATION 

To  My  Dear  Dad  who  always 
believed  in  me. 


Preface 


OUT  of  the  exclamation:  "Gee!  You  ought 
to  write  a  book,"  uttered  by  many 
friends?  who  had  been  reading  my 
stuff  in  American  and  English  newspapers, 
this  volume  has  grown.  Heaven  forgive  me 
for  it.  My  stories  have  all  been  written  on  the 
wing,  as  it  were, — in  railroad  depots,  Pullman 
smokers,  way-side  lunch  rooms  and  theatre- 
dressing-rooms,  at  unearthly  hours  while  tour 
ing  the  vaudeville  circuits  when  I  had  neither 
the  time  or  inclination  to  cultivate  literary 
style  or  to  compel  my  grammar  and  punctua 
tion  to  behave.  The  result  is — literary  vaude 
ville,  that's  all.  It  is  customary  for  the  perpe 
trator  of  a  book,  so  I  have  been  told,  to  let  the 
reader  know  in  a  preface  something  about  him 
self.  The  best  I  can  do  is  to  quote  an  inter 
view  with  myself,  by  myself,  published  in  "The 
Lone  Hand"  (Australia),  Feb.  1st,  1912.  The 
editor  of  "The  Lone  Hand"  wired  to  ask  me  if 
I  would  receive  an  interviewer  and  tell  him 
something  about  my  career.  Here  is  my  reply 
— I  repeat  it  here  because  it  is  not  all  about 
myself. 

DEAR  EDITOR,— Don't  send  an  interview 
er.    Don't  shoot,  I'll  tell  you  everything. 

I  was  born  in  Ballarat,  and  there  is  no 

vii 


Preface 


marble  drinking-fountain  erected  by  grateful 
citizens  to  mark  the  spot. 

I  was  not  born  and  reared  in  luxury,  nor 
did  awed  neighbors — on  that  eventful  morn 
ing — look  into  my  baby  face  and  whisper:  "Oh, 
the  beautiful  darling!  He'll  be  a  great  artist 
some  day."  The  nurse  did  not  discover  me 
drawing  a  wonderful  picture  of  her  on  my 
satin-covered  pillow,  and  it  is  not  a  fact  that 
at  the  age  of  six  months  I  neglected  my  gruel 
to  copy  Corot  and  the  great  Turner. 

I  was  just  one  of  those  ordinary  Hebrew 
babies,  hundreds  of  which  were  making  their 
appearance  in  our  neighborhood  every  month. 
I  was  never — in  my  childhood — much  of  a 
pride  and  joy  to  my  parents — being  more  or 
less  sickly  and  in  trouble.  Instead  of  saturat 
ing  myself  with  Milton  and  Shakespeare  (as 
all  great  artists  did  at  the  age  of  six  years) 
I  was  around  pulling  neighbors'  doorbells,  and 
otherwise  making  myself  a  general  curse. 

At  the  age  of  seven  I  had  a  dangerous  ill 
ness,  which  left  me  (conductor,  please  play 
very  piano]  so  shattered  that  I  was  henceforth 
known  to  the  family  as  "poor  Abe.'' 

Abe — which  is  a  sort  of  affectionate  abbre 
viation  of  Abraham — is  my  real  name.  Oh! 

viii 


Preface 


I'm  not  ashamed  of  it,  for  Abraham  Lincoln 
was  not  too  proud  to  use  it. 

I  always  claimed  that  my  father  named  me 
after  Lincoln,  but  my  enemies  assert  that  it  is 
more  likely  that  my  father  thought  of  Abe  At- 
tell,  the  champion  lightweight  pugilist. 

At  any  rate,  I  consider  that  when  I  adopted 
the  name  of  Bert,  the  clothing  trade  and  the 
book-making  fraternity  lost  a  possible  adher 
ent. 

Just  think  how  ideal  the  name  of  Abe  Levy 
would  have  looked  on  a  betting-bag. 

I  attended  the  Melbourne  Hebrew  School  at 
the  back  of  the  Bourke-street  Synagogue — 
when  I  wasn't  playing  truant.  Of  my  Hebrew 
school  days  I  entertain  the  tenderest  mem 
ories  of  Joel  Fredman,  the  head  master — an 
affectionate  and  true  man  who  inspired  me 
with  one  or  two  ideals  I  have  never  forgotten. 
In  my  scrapbook  I  have  the  first  notice  of  my 
work  ever  published.  It  is  the  review  of  some 
drawings — "Musical  Instruments  of  the  Bible" 
— I  made  for  a  lecture  delivered  by  Joel  Fred 
man  at  the  Oddfellows'  Hall,  Carlton. 

I  was  so  successful  with  these  drawings  that 
my  father  started  me  in  life  as  an  eyelet  boy 
in  his  boot  factory.  My  duties  consisted  of 

ix 


Preface 


standing  at  an  eyelet  machine  punching  brass 
eyelets  into  the  boot-tops  all  day.  Oh !  such  an 
artistic  occupation — about  as  cheerful  as  feed 
ing  meat  to  a  sausage-machine.  Trenwith,  the 
Labor  leader,  used  to  address  my  father's  men 
every  lunch  hour ;  subject :  "The  Manifold  Ad 
vantages  of  a  General  Strike."  My  foot  got  so 
tired  at  that  eyelet  machine  that  I  grew  inter 
ested  in  Trenwath's  addresses,  and  I  was  "agin" 
all  bloated  capitalists  (including  my  father), 
till  dad  thought  I  was  not  smart  enough  for 
an  eyelet  boy,  so  he  apprenticed  me  to  my 
brother-in-law,  one  Joshua  Langley,  a  Mel 
bourne  pawnbroker.  My  duties  consisted  of 
minding  the  rugs  and  trunks  that  stood  at  the 
door  while  Josh  was  having  his  meals. 

My  brother-in-law  believed  in  my  artistic 
talent  to  the  extent  of  allowing  me  to  write  (in 
red  and  blue  inks)  the  window  tickets;  and  I 
spent  many  happy  hours  behind  the  pledge 
counter  printing  in  Old  English  flourish :  "This 
Beautiful  Waltham  Watch,  absolute  bargain, 
£4  10s.,"  or,  "A  Double-Barrel  Quick  Action 
Repeater;  Owner  Sick — will  part  for  £7  15s. 
9d." 

Josh  admired  the  red  shadows  that  I  did  for 
the  blue  letters,  and  told  me  so;  but,  alas! 


Preface 


one  (lay,  as  T  was  minding  the  rugs,  a  man 
came  and  talked  to  me.  He  held  my  attention 
—in  fact,  he  stood  right  in  front  of  me  while 
an  accomplice  unhooked  two  of  the  best  rugs, 
picked  a  second-hand  gun  out  of  the  rack  (he 
could  not  carry  the  heavy  trunks),  and  bolted 
up  the  street. 

Josh  said :  "You'll  never  have  brains  enough 
to  be  a  pawnbroker."  So  we  parted.  All  my 
artistic  tickets  were  in  vain.  He  is  dead  now, 
but  the  ticket — -"Owner  sick" — still  remains 
in  use. 

Being  unsuitable  as  a  pawnbroker,  my  dad 
apprenticed  me  to  George  Gordon,  the  scenic- 
artist  at  the  Theatre  Eoyal,  Melbourne.  For 
four  years  I  was  at  his  side — and,  oh !  at  last  I 
was  in  Bohemia.  The  long  list  of  really  de 
lightful  men  who  passed  through  our  paint- 
room  (many  of  them  now  gone)  left  in  my 
heart  a  love  of  humanity  which  has  never  de 
parted. 

As  I  write,  memories  of  J.  L.  Toole,  Phil 
May,  Dr.  Meld,  James  Smith,  Charles  Warner, 
Bland  Holt,  J.  C.  Williamson,  Fred  Leslie, 
Teddy  Lonnen,  John  Hennings,  W.  B.  Spong 
(father  of  Hilda),  the  Boucicaults  (father 
and  son),  Alfred  Cellier,  John  Bruton  (God 

xi 


Preface 


bless  his  soul!),  and  many  others  crowd  my 
mind,  and  I  feel  grateful  that  I  started  my 
real  life  in  this  way. 

George  Gordon  was  one  of  nature's  noblemen 
—kind,  gentle  and  absolutely  unselfish.  So 
sweet  and  gentle  that  he  could  not  inflict  pain 
on  any  living  thing.  I  remember  on  one  occa 
sion  a  huge  beetle  was  creeping  across  his 
scene  painter's  palette  at  the  Princess's,  Mel 
bourne.  He  called  the  assistant,  one  Staple- 
ton,  to  remove  it.  Stapleton  hastily  took  off  his 
slipper  to  kill  it.  Gordon  said:  "No!  no!  don't 
kill  it.  Why  do  you  thoughtlessly  kill?  Just 
remove  it." 

Jack  Gordon,  the  son  who,  until  his  death  re 
cently,  was  Williamson's  chief  artist,  started 
with  his  father  the  same  time  as  I  did;  and  I 
remember  Jack  as  a  chip  of  the  old  block — a 
simple,  upright  boy,  who  couldn't  do  a  mean  ac 
tion.  Jack  and  I  one  day  got  a  poor  little  cat 
in  the  property  room  of  the  Princess's,  and 
decorated  it  with  bronze  leaf.  We  painted  its 
nose  a  brilliant  carmine  and  stuck  green  foil 
paper  on  its  tail.  Unfortunately  the  cat  walked, 
in  its  rainbow  attire,  right  to  the  paint  room, 
and  when  George  Gordon  saw  our  brilliant 
handiwork  he  was  indignant.  Jack  and  I 
were  sent  home  for  the  day. 

xii 


Preface 


About  this  time  I  began  contributing  letter 
press  to  the  various  weekly  papers  to  eke  out 
pocket  money.  I  was  possessed  of  a  graphic 
imagination  (my  friends  said  I  was  a  lovely 
liar  then — now  they  say  I  am  a  splendid  story 
writer),  and  wrote  a  lot  of  theatrical  stuff  for 
the  Punch,  the  Mirror  and  Table  Talk.  I  con 
tributed  under  various  pen-names  to  Sydney 
and  Adelaide  papers.  To  make  a  long  story 
short,  the  long  hours  of  scene-painting  wearied 
me,  and  the  fact  that  I  was  newspaper  free 
lancing  successfully,  decided  me  to  forsake  the 
paint-frame.  I  contributed  many  drawings  to 
The  Bulletin,  to  the  Sydney  Mail  and  to  the 
Town  and  Country. 

Then  dramatic  critic  for  the  Bendigo  Adver 
tiser,  and  artist  to  the  Bendigonian  for  a  per 
iod  of  two  years,  where  my  work  caught  the 
eye  of  David  Syrue,  who  sent  for  me,  and  in 
stalled  me  as  Leader  cartoonist  for  two  years. 
My  experience  with  David  Syme  was  the  most 
trying,  yet  the  most  useful  of  my  career. 

In  the  Age  office  I  would  be  drawing  for  the 
Leader  poultry  column  one  minute,  and  the 
next  I  would  be  on  my  way  to  gather  materials 
for  a  sketch  of  "Sticking  up  a  Tram-car  at 
South  Yarra."  After  which  I'd  return  to  the 

xiii 


Preface 

office  where  the  agricultural  editor  desired  a 
ground  plan  of  a  new  pig  run.  Then  the  big 
chief,  David  Syme,  would  send  for  me,  and 
desire  me  to  place  before  him  a  cartoon  of  Da 
vid  Gaunson  or  W.  H.  Croker.  In  the  mean 
time  there  would  be  a  front  page  to  do  for 
Every  Saturday,  published  by  the  same  office. 
In  addition  to  the  front  page  there  were  pen- 
drawings  for  the  Lady's  Column,  depicting  the 
latest  Parisian  hats,  or  the  latest  types  of 
Turkish  gunboats.  When  I  finished  work  at 
nine  or  ten  o'clock  at  night  the  Editor,  Henry 
Short,  would  give  me  work  to  take  home.  He 
explained  that  the  home  work  would  keep  me 
from  sleeping.  You  know  men  in  the  Age  office 
never  sleep.  When  the  paper  went  to  press, 
and  there  was  nothing  to  do  for  ten  minutes, 
Short  would  hand  out  an  article  on  "What 
to  do  when  the  Bee  Stings,"  or  "The  Cause  of 
Sore  Teats  in  Jersey  Cows,"  with  instructions 
to  illustrate  the  same  with  ninety-nine  draw 
ings,  including  a  sectional  drawing  of  the  inner 
lining  of  a  Jersey  cow's  teat. 

A  London  omnibus  driver  once  told  me  that 
his  hours  were  all  right.  "Yer  see,  sir,"  he 
remarked,  "I  gets  on  my  seat  at  five  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  and  I  stays  on  till  twelve 

xiv 


Preface 


o'clock  at  night;  then  I  'as  the  rest  of  the 
evening  to  meself."  I  felt  like  that  poor  'bus 
driver  while  in  the  Age  office. 

Every  Monday  I  had  to  take  the  "Man-of- 
the-hour"  cartoon  into  David  Syme's  office  to 
get  his  "O.K."  Oh,  those  Mondays!  Every 
man  in  the  office  would  look  at  me  with  abject 
pity  as  I  made  my  way  along  the  corridor.  I 
felt  like  Dreyfus. 

One  morning  I  took  in  my  sketch  of  Sir 
John  Forrest.  David  Syme  was  lying  on  the 
couch  in  his  office,  reading.  I  placed  my  sketch 
on  a  chair  so  that  he  could  inspect  it  without 
rising.  He  ignored  my  presence  for  a  full  two 
minutes,  then  languidly  turned  his  head.  Oh, 
the  agony  of  those  awful  minutes.  He  resumed 
reading;  then  another  awful  pause.  "I  asked 
you  to  draw  Sir  John  Forrest,"  he  slowly 
drawled,  "not  Sir  George  Turner." 

Anyone  recollecting  the  difference  between 
Forrest  and  Turner  will  realize  the  crushing 
blow  he  had  dealt  me. 

But  I  loved  the  old  man  for  his  justice.  Sev 
eral  people  desired  my  discharge,  but  David 
Syme  believed  in  me,  and  would  not  listen  to 
any  adverse  criticism  of  my  work.  He  treated 
me  splendidly,  and  I  always  felt  it  a  privilege 

XT 


Preface 


to  get  as  close  to  him  as  I  did.  My  cartoon  of 
Clerk  of  Parliament  Jenkins  was  re-drawn 
about  fifteen  times  before  it  met  with  Mr. 
Syme's  approval.  He  kept  on  ordering  altera 
tions  in  a  heart-breaking  way.  Just  when  he 
was  about  to  "O.K."  the  week's  subject,  he 
would  suggest  taking  the  arm  from  one  sketch, 
the  leg  from  another,  and  tacking  this  one  on 
to  that.  Sometimes  he'd  find  fault  with  the 
way  the  boots  were  laced  or  buttoned.  "You. 
know,  bootmakers  and  tailors  are  the  reauens 
of  the  Leader,  not  artiste,"  he  would  say.  By 
the  time  the  cartoon  was  in  the  Leader 
showcases  at  the  door  my  pals  would  stand 
around  and  say  how  "photographic"  Levy's 
work  was.  My  work  on  the  Leader  was  ad 
versely  criticized,  but  I  had  one  solace — 
Michael  Angelo  wouldn't  have  done  much 
with  Goeffrey  Syme,  Henry  Short  and  David 
Syme  and  old  Mr.  Dow,  the  agricultural 
editor,  hanging  over  him  and  telling  him  where 
to  put  the  buttons  on  the  coat,  the  stumps  in 
the  unploughed  field,  the  nails  in  the  fence, 
and  the  gate  in  the  pig-run. 

Left  the  Age  office  and  went  to  San  Fran 
cisco,  making  up  my  mind  in  an  hour  .  En 
route  on  the  old  S.S.  Sonoma  I  started  a  little 

xvi 


Preface 


paper  on  board,  containing  sketches  of  the 
day's  doings.  It  was  posted  daily  on  the  saloon 
mirror.  I  remember  I  sketched  Frank  Coffee, 
a  Sydney  man,  and  poor  old  Pete  Hughes,  who 
were  on  board ;  and  many  other  celebrities,  in 
cluding  captain  and  officers. 

On  reaching  Honolulu  John  D.  Spreckles, 
the  owner  of  the  Sonoma,  also  owner  of  the 
San  Francisco  Call,  came  aboard  to  sail  home 
to  'Frisco.  My  daily  sheet  interested  him. 
He  was  reading  on  deck  Ezra  Brudno's  The 
Fugitive,  a  story  of  American  and  Kussian 
Hebrew  life.  He,  on  arrival  at  'Frisco,  wired 
to  New  York  buying  the  serial  rights  of  the 
book,  and  published  a  chapter  each  Sunday 
in  the  Call,  engaging  me  to  illustrate  it. 

Well,  I  woke  up  one  morning  to  see  'Frisco 
billed  with  rny  name  in  the  same  size  letters  as 
Brudno's.  I  began  getting  real  money  so  fast 
that — well,  I  went  to  New  York  in  such  extrav 
agant  style  (stopping  in  all  the  big  cities  en 
route)  that  I  arrived  with  the  proverbial 
couple  of  dollars. 

Yes,  I  was  actually  in  want  for  a  few  days. 
It  was  a  lovely  experience.  I  really  had  never 
before  suffered  any  serious  hardship,  but  here, 
at  last,  I  felt  like  a  starving  artist,  you  know, 

xvii 


Preface 


just  like  those  fellows  in  La  Boheme.  I  really 
wanted  my  face  to  grow  pale  and  weary.  I 
wanted  my  shoes  and  clothes  to  get  real 
shabby.  I  wanted  to  knock  at  some  beautiful 
prima  donna's  door,  hungry  and  footsore.  I 
wanted  to  faint  in  the  crowded  thoroughfare, 
and  have  the  police  call  an  ambulance,  and 
while  the  ambulance  was  on  its  way  I  would 
have  liked  a  beautiful  daughter  of  some  Stand 
ard  Oil  King  to  soothe  my  fevered  brow  and 
tear  her  petticoat  to  make  bandages  for  uiy 
burning  eyes.  But  my  dreams  were  not  to  be 
realized.  I  got  a  job  in  the  costume  designing 
and  picture  department  of  Siegel  Cooper  and 
Co.,  Universal  Providers.  The  head  lady  de 
signer  liked  me,  the  manager  of  the  department 
liked  her,  and  hated  me.  He  was  unkind  to 
her.  I  called  him  a  damned  Jew,  and  was  dis 
charged. 

Weber  and  Fields,  the  famous  music  hall, 
was  around  the  corner.  I  took  my  designs 
there — got  a  job  on  the  then  approaching  pro 
duction  of  "Higgeldy  Piggeldy."  I  did  some 
of  the  dress  plates. 

The  editor  of  the  Morning  Telegraph,  Irving 
Lewis,  saw  me  at  work.  "You're  too  strong  for 
this  'lady's'  work,"  he  said.  "Come  round  to 

xviii 


Preface 


the  Morning  Telegraph."  I  did.  I've  been 
drawing  for  them  oft'  and  on  ever  since,  and 
my  work  has  been  syndicated  throughout  the 
whole  of  the  IT.  S.  A.  I've  been  asked  about  the 
birth  of  my  vaudeville  idea.  Listen. 

Fifteen  years  ago,  Jim  Edmonds,  editor  of 
the  Sydney  Bulletin,  was  to  tea  at  my  home, 
Waverly,  Sydney.  That  evening  we  attended 
Frank  Lincoln's  entertainment  at  the  Cente 
nary  Hall.  During  the  entertainment,  as  a 
quiet  interval  for  Lincoln,  several  completed 
drawings  of  mine  were  exhibited  per  medium 
of  lantern  slides.  In  the  "Sundry  Shows"  col 
umn  the  next  week  James  Edmonds  wrote: 
"Levy's  drawings  were  excellent,  but  it  is  a 
pity  we  do  not  see  them  in  the  making." 

I  set  to  work,  experimented  for  nearly  two 
years,  and  evolved  my  present  act,  showed  it  to 
one  or  two  Sydney  vaudeville  managers,  but 
they  offered  me  too  little  money  for  it,  so  I 
shelved  it  till  I  could  reach  America.  During 
my  early  career  on  the  N.  Y.  Morning  Tele 
graph,  I  was  in  demand  at  social  functions, 
and  brought  the  old  apparatus  (which  I  had 
left  at  the  Call  office,  'Frisco). 

One  night  head  liner  ill  at  the  famous  Harn- 
xix 


Preface 


merstein'B,  New  York,  I  filled  the  place — big 
hit — never  looked  back. 

Have  covered  eight  hundred  and  twenty-six 
cities — worked  in  every  language  and  every 
clime.  Have  shared  head-line  honors  with  the 
big  stars  of  every  country;  but,  best  of  all,  I 
have  enjoyed  the  friendships  of  some  of  God's 

noblemen — fellows  who  have  done  something. 

»         *         *         * 

I  was  appearing  at  Keith's  Theatre,  Boston, 
Mass.  Mark  Twain  happened  to  come  into  the 
stage  box  whilst  I  was  entertaining.  I  seized 
the  moment  to  draw  his  picture,  and  the  audi 
ence  gave  him  an  ovation.  Walking  down,  I 
handed  him  my  drawing,  which  he  accepted. 
Well,  that  started  an  acquaintanceship  which 
ripened  during  the  four  years  prior  to  his 
death.  I  had  the  joy  of  travelling  in  his  com 
pany  on  the  North  Coast  Limited,  from  Chi 
cago  to  Los  Angeles,  California,  and  I  will 
never  forget  the  veneration  with  which  the 
kindly  old  Mississippi  Pilot  was  received  all 
along  the  route — even  the  colored  Pullman 
porters  quarrelled  for  the  privilege  of  serving 
him. 

A  few  years  ago  I  designed  the  dress-plates 
for  "A  Bad  Samaritan"— George  Ade's  play, 

xx 


Preface 


and  was  brought  into  contact  with  the  author. 
Australians  may  remember  his  book,  Fables 
in  Slang;  but  they  have  never  seen  his  real 
work  —  I  mean  his  dramatic  work.  There 
is  scarcely  a  hamlet  in  America  which  has 
not  been  visited  by  a  travelling  company 
doing  George  Ade's  The  County  Chairman 
or  Father  and  the  Boys — two  dramas  breath 
ing  America.  George  Ade,  James  Whitcomb 
Riley  and  George  Barr  McCutcheon  were 
the  three  men  who  made  Indiana  famous  as  the 
home  of  the  Hoosier  writers.  Oh !  I  do  wish  I 
could  adequately  describe  George  Ade — "six 
feet  of  humanitarianism"  is  the  best  I  can  do. 
A  lanky,  good-natured  fellow  with  a  delightful 
drawl.  What  he  doesn't  know  of  "The  Great 
White  Way''  (as  Broadway  is  called  in  actor- 
land  )  isn't  worth  knowing.  On  the  first  night 
of  his  new  productions,  Ade  doesn't  wait  round 
in  the  wings  for  his  "call" — he  is  a  few  blocks 
away  at  Browne's  Chop  House  talking  about 
Egypt. 

About  this  time,  the  New  York  papers,  in 
notices  of  my  stage  work,  were  calling  me  "The 
living  Phil  May."  This  made  me  very  happy 
and  all  but  swelled-headed.  By  the  way,  poor 
Phil  May  was  a  constant  visitor  at  the  Princess 

xxi 


Preface 


paint  room  in  Melbourne  and  I  used  to  hang 
onto  every  word  Phil  spoke  when  he  was  there. 

It  is  easy  to  understand  why  Phil  May  was 
loved.  It  is  not  the  technique  in  his  line  which 
conquered  the  world.  It  is  the  love,  the  kind 
ness,  the  humanity  which  peeps  out  of  every 
thing  he  did.  Phil  used  to  cry  when  he  saw 
Poverty — his  drawings  of  poor  gutter  kids 
have  made  the  world  feel  a  lump  in  its  throat. 
Phil  was  just  a  genius,  that's  all,  and  the  lov 
ing  memory  of  him  will  remain  long  after  his 
many  imitators  are  gone. 

I'm  glad  of  one  thing — I've  covered  many 
hundreds  of  cities  during  the  last  few  years; 
I've  never  found  the  name  of  Levy  mutilated 
on  a  bill  board  or  hoarding  on  account  of  my 
race.  I've  never  felt  a  jeer  among  my  audi 
ence  because  of  my  Hebrew  face.  I've  had  the 
honor  of  sharing  head-line  honors  with  some  of 
the  greatest  entertainers  in  the  world  and — 
Yes !  Yes !  Mr.  Editor,  I  know  I  am  speaking 
too  much  of  myself.  This  talk  has  been  noth 
ing  but  "I !  I !  I !" — but  you  asked  me  to  write 
of  myself — and  I  feel  so  grateful  that  I  have 
met  and  worked  with  lots  of  fine  human  people 
( the  bigger  they  are  the  more  lovable  and  sim 
ple  they  become).  No!  I  am  not  conceited,  for 


Preface 


there  is  always  a  fly  in  my  ointment  of  happi 
ness,  the  fly  that  brings  one  down  to  earth. 

At  time  of  writing  I  am  sharing  head-line 
honors  (at  the  Opera  House,  Melbourne)  with 
George  I.,  the  trained  monkey,  and — the  mon 
key  has  the  star  dressing-room. 
*         *         *         * 

I'm  glad  to  be  home  after  ten  years;  every 
thing  seems  strange  and  sad.  People  stop 
me  in  the  street  and  say:  "Don't  you  think 
things  have  improved?  Gone  ahead,  eh?" 
After  ten  years  one  doesn't  look  for  new  nickel- 
plated  shop  fronts  and  sewerage  improvements. 
One  looks  for  the  faces  of  the  old  friends ;  and 
if  a  few  are  missing — well,  there  is  nothing  to 
make  up  for  them. 

Do  you  remember  the  lines  of  old  Jaikes  in 
the  Silver  King?— 

"  'Ome  ain't  the  four  walls,  the  ceiling  and  the  furniture ; 
'oine's  the  place  where  those  as  love  us  is." 

There  are  three  people  I  have  been  sighing 
to  see  for  these  last  few  years,  and  I've  come 
too  late :  John  Brunton,  the  scenic  artist ;  Jack 
Gordon  (poor  Jack  died  just  after  my  re 
turn)  ;  and  my  old  dad. 

Dad  used  to  think  that  Titian,  Reubens,  Van 
Dyke  and  all  those  fellows  were  mere  "pikers" 


Preface 


compared  to  me.  If  anyone  had  suggested 
that  Millais  or  Leighton  knew  more  about  the 
painting  game  than  I  did,  father  would  have 
withered  that  person  with  a  look. 

Dad  was  a  big  six-footer,  full  of  tenderness 
and  emotion.  Every  workman  in  our  boot  fac 
tory  swore  by  him.  When  I  left  for  America 
he  just  squeezed  me  to  his  great  big  chest,  and 
I  inwardly  vowed  to  send  him  the  first  five 
hundred  pounds  I  ever  got  hold  of.  I've  got  the 
money — but,  well,  home  doesn't  seem  the  same 
without  him. 

BERT  LEVY. 


I  desire  to  make  all  proper  acknowledgments  to  the 
editors  of  the  New  York  Herald,  New  York  Morning 
Telegraph,  Christian  Science  Monitor,  The  Sydney  Bulletin 
(Australia),  The  London  Stage,  Times-Picayune  (New 
Orleans),  Atlanta  Constitution,  The  Oakland  Enquirer, 
The  Seattle  Post-Intelligencer,  San  Francisco  Call  and 
The  London  Daily  Express  for  permission  to  reproduce 
my  stories  and  to  all  others  who  have  been  in  any  way 
implicated  in  the  making  of  this  book. 


XXIV 


FOR  THE  GOOD  OF  THE 
RACE 


FKOM  Australia  I  came,  a  sad-eyed,  pale- 
faced,  poetic  young  Jew,  with  an  unspeak 
able  love  of  my  people  burning  in  my  Iieart. 
Of  Polish-Russian  parentage,  there  was  im 
planted  in  my  nature  an  indefinable  sorrow 
(inherited  perhaps)  which  left  me  high-strung 
and  sensitive  to  the  anti-Semitic  taunts  of  my 
schoolmates. 

Given  all  my  life  to  idle  dreaming,  I  would 
often  try  to  visualize  that  new  world  I  had  so 
often  read  about — that  great  country  where 
there  was  no  prejudice  against  my  race — the 
New  Jerusalem — America. 

Shyly  hugging  to  nay  breast  some  borrowed 
book  or  magazine  I  would  seek  seclusion,  so 
that  I  might  dream  over  the  pages  containing 
many  Jewish  faces  and  read  with  pride  and 
gratitude  of  the  high  places  occupied  by  my 
people  in  music,  art,  literature  and  the  drama 
in  America.  Filled  with  Jewish  names  and 
good  Jewish  deeds  was  the  story  of  this  new 
Zion,  and  a  longing  to  be  among  the  great  ones 
of  my  people  took  possession  of  me.  Between 
my  dear  father  and  myself  there  was  a  bond 

1 


For  the  Good  of  the  Race 

of  love  too  sacred  for  words,  and  when  I  looked 
upon  his  dear  face  for  the  last  time  in  this 
world,  and  bade  him  a  sorrowful  goodbye 
before  my  departure  for  this  New  Jerusalem, 
he  held  me  close  to  his  breast  and  whispered : 

"Don't  forget  that  you  are  a  Jew,  and,  if 
you  need  sympathy,  love  or  help,  go  to  your 
own  race  and  show  your  Arba  Kanfoth." 
(According  to  Deuteronomy  xxii,  12,  the  Jews 
are  commanded  to  wear  fringe  upon  the  four 
corners  of  their  vestures,  and  this  command  is 
observed  to  the  present  day  by  wearing  a 
special  garment  with  these  fringes,  generally 
hidden  by  the  ordinary  clothes. ) 

En  route  to  the  promised  land,  I  carried  my 
father's  words  across  the  ocean  in  my  heart, 
and  the  memory  of  his  tear-dimmed  eyes  and 
the  pressure  of  his  big  loving  arms  has  never 
left  me;  in  fact,  the  memory  is  so  strong  at 
times  that  I  find  it  hard  to  believe  that  he  is 
not  by  my  side  telling  me,  in  spite  of  many 
disappointments  in  my  race,  that,  after  all, 
Jews  are  still  my  brethren  and  sisters. 

Oh,  the  wonderful  days  and  wonderful 
nights  out  on  that  beautiful  Pacific  Ocean, 
where  God  and  His  stars  seemed  so  near  that 
one  formed  a  good  resolution  with  every  throb 

2 


For  the  Good  of  the  Race 

of  the  ship's  great  engine  far  down  below !  On 
one  of  those  nights  I  sat  listening  to  someone 
playing  in  the  music  salon,  and  I  was  inwardly 
thanking  the  Creator  that  there  was  a  Puccini 
in  the  world  and  that  he  had  given  us  "La 
Boheme."  There  we  were,  thousands  of  miles 
from  anywhere,  languidly. rolling  under  a  per 
fect  moonlit  sky,  listening  to  the  plaintive  airs 
that  Puccini  had  coined  for  Mimi.  There  was 
hardly  a  sound  but  the  gentle  lapping  of  the 
waves  breaking  against  the  vessel's  side  till  a 
slight  commotion  on  deck  up  ahead  caused 
some  of  the  listeners  to  investigate.  One  of 
the  passengers,  an  ex-Harvard  man,  returned 
with  the  remark : 

'Oh,  it's  only  some  damned  Jew.  He's  fallen 
and  hurt  himself  pretty  badly." 

Like  a  smudge  on  a  beautiful  picture  was 
this  anti-Semitic  sentiment  uttered  on  such  a 
night,  and,  considering  its  source,  I  felt  deeply 
grieved.  As  I  was  the  only  other  Jew  in  the 
first  cabin,  I  made  my  way  to  the  stateroom 
where  they  had  carried  the  victim  of  the  acci 
dent,  and  found  him  to  be  a  tender-hearted  old 
man  who,  I  subsequently  learned,  had  spent  a 
long  life  in  acts  of  charity  toward  his  fellow 
men  and  women,  regardless  of  creed.  He  was 

3 


For  the  Good  of  the  Race 

returning  to  end  his  days  in  Jerusalem  (his 
Jerusalem,  not  the  one  of  my  dreams),  where 
he  could  touch  again  the  beloved  stones  of  the 
wailing  wall. 

Something  in  the  old  man's  face,  that  "some 
thing"  which  was  in  the  face  of  my  father,  my 
brothers,  that  "something''  which  is  in  the  face 
of  every  Jew,  drew  me  to  him,  as  it  has  drawn 
me  to  all  Jews  always,  and  I  spent  many  intel 
lectual  hours  by  his  berth  picking  up  grains  of 
wisdom  which  he  had  translated  from  the 
Talmud.  I  wished  that  the  ex-Harvard  man 
could  have  known  that  the  old  man's  wrinkles 
were  but  the  pathetic  records  of  the  massacres 
of  his  kith  and  kin  which  he  had  witnessed  in 
his  homeland,  and  that  he  daily  prayed  for 
death  to  efface  the  awful  memories. 

Later  on  the  ex-Harvard  man  asked  me  to 
join  in  a  deck  game.  I  reminded  him  that  I 
also  was  a  "damned  Jew." 

"Pm  sorry,"  he  said.  "I  know  what  you  re 
fer  to — that  was  an  unfortunate  slip  I  made 
the  other  night — merely  a  figure  of  speech,  I 
assure  you." 

I  found  him  a  charming  companion,  and 
soon  in  a  cozy  corner  of  the  smoking-room  we 
became  fast  friends,  and  I  tried  to  win  him 
over  to  think  better  of  our  people. 


For  the  Good  of  the  Race 

"I  would  like  to  hear  your  opinion  of  your 
fellow  Jew  after  you  have  spent,  say,  twelve 
months  in  America,"  he  said,  skeptically. 

Since  then  I  have  walked  the  length  and 
breadth  of  the  great  cities  of  America,  and  my 
very  soul  has  cried  out  to  my  fellow  Jew: 
"Suppress  Thyself!"  The  day  I  arrived  in 
New  York  I  learned  that  my  dearest  friend, 
my  father,  had  passed  away,  and  naturally  my 
first  thought  was  to  say  the  Kaddish,  a  prayer 
of  the  Jewish  liturgy  recited  by  orphans  for 
the  welfare  of  the  souls  of  their  deceased 
parents,  somewhat  after  the  fashion  of  the 
Catholic  mass.  Every  male  of  Jewish  blood  at 
some  time  of  his  life  recites  this  beautiful 
prayer.  It  does  not  matter  how  far  one  strays 
from  the  fold  or  how  much  one  has  denied  the 
faith,  there  comes  a  time  when  the  Jew  in  him 
asserts  itself  and  he  says  the  Kaddish, 

Public  prayer  among  Jews  can  only  be  re 
cited  in  the  presence  of  ten  males  above  the  age 
of  religious  maturity,  and  this  assembly  is 
called  Minyan.  Surely,  I  thought  in  a  great 
city  I  would  easily  find  Minyan,  so,  like  any 
stranger  in  a  strange  land,  I  followed  the  line 
of  least  resistance  and  sought  out  the  Jewish 
names  best  known  to  the  public.  I  called  at 

5 


For  the  Good  of  the  Race 

a  famous  uptown  theatre  with  the  name  of  a 
great  Hebrew  over  the  door.  He  was  the  Dig 
man  of  whom  I  read  with  such  pride  in  the  lit 
tle  mining  town  at  the  other  end  of  the  world. 
Yes!  The  same  Jewish  face  depicted  in  the 
huge  photograph  in  the  lobby  I  had  seen  in  the 
magazine  I  had  hugged  so  lovingly  at  home. 

I  made  my  way,  full  of  hope,  to  his  office, 
and  was  asked  by  a  doorkeeper  my  mission.  I 
explained — the  doorkeeper  was  a  Hebrew — 
that  I  desired  to  say  Kaddish  for  my  father 
and  that  I  wanted  to  form  a  Minyan.  With  a 
sly  wink  he  passed  me  on  to  several  Hebrew 
clerks  and  office  boys,  each  of  whom  smiled, 
sneered,  and  made  his  little  joke  about  "green 
horns."  Then,  for  a  laugh,  I  was  ushered  with 
many  grimaces  into  the  presence  of  the  big 
man. 

Just  a  minute's  conversation  convinced  me 
that  he  was  a  Jew  in  appearance  only,  and  that 
he  had  never  known  anything  of  the  traditions, 
the  romance,  the  art,  or  the  literature  of  our 
race  He  didn't  exactly  know  what  Minyan 
was,  or  pretended  he  didn't,  but  recommended 
me  to  "one  of  your  people,"  as  he  sarcastically 
put  it,  who  ran  a  very  popular  chophouse  close 

by. 

6 


For  the  Good  of  the  Race 

When  I  spoke  of  Minyan  and  Kaddish  to 
the  chophouse  proprietor  he  thought  I  was 
speaking  of  some  new  Hungarian  dish,  and 
nearly  laughed  his  head  off  as  I  explained  that 
I  needed  some  fellow  Jews  to  help  me  say  a 
prayer  for  the  repose  of  my  father's  soul. .  He 
repeated  the  joke  (?)  to  several  of  his  Jewish 
customers,  who  joined  in  the  laugh  on  me,  and 
some  of  them  sneeringly  suggested  that  I  could 
easily  find  a  Minyan  by  rounding  up  the  Yid- 
disher  gunmen  of  the  city. 

I  began  to  realize  that  I  was  a  stranger 
among  my  own  people,  and  that  night  I  walked 
the  streets  of  great  New  York  with  an  aching 
heart.  Everywhere  in  the  hurrying  crowds  I 
saw  the  faces  of  my  brethren  and  sisters,  thou 
sands,  hundreds  and  thousands  of  them,  hur 
rying,  pushing,  shoving  brethren  they  were, 
with  all  the  tenderness,  the  friendship  and  the 
Semitic  look  gone  from  their  eyes. 

"Oh,  God!"  I  thought,  "are  these  the  chil 
dren  of  Israel?  Is  this  the  persecuted  race — 
that  people  who  had  been  scattered  to  the  four 
corners  of  the  earth?" 

Hungry  and  weary  I  followed  the  crowd  as 
if  in  a  dream  to  the  cafe  of  a  great  hotel. 
Everything  in  the  huge  room  was  glaringly 

7 


For  the  Good  of  the  Race 

i  i ...  1 1     i  . — . — . — 

false — marble  pillars,  oak  beams,  flowers,  were 
all  imitation ;  a  big  orchestra  sat  in  a  balcony 
with  an  artificial  moon  and  a  painted  sky  as 
a  background;  everywhere  wrere  lights,  lights 
and  more  lights. 

From  table  to  table  I  went,  attempting  to 
sit  dowrn,  but  I  was  roughly  reminded  that 
"this"  was  reserved  and  "that"  was  reserved. 
Presently  glaringly  gowned,  be-diamonded 
Jewish  women,  accompanied  by  equally  vul 
gar  Jewish  men,  filed  in  and  occupied  every 
seat,  and  between  mouthfuls  of  food  and  drink 
their  bodies  would  sway  to  the  voices  of  other 
Jews  who  sang  only  of  "Mississippi"  and 
"Georgia."  How  these  people  did  laugh  when 
they  caught  sight  of  my  foreign  clothes  and 
my  pale,  poetic  face,  and  how  they  would  have 
screamed  with  laughter  had  I  shown  them  my 
Arba-Kanfoth,  that  beautiful  little  token 
which  my  poor  father  fondly  imagined  would 
have  made  me  understood  in  the  New  Jerusa 
lem. 

Out  into  the  night  I  went,  and  found  myself 
struggling  in  a  torrent  of  humanity.  Every 
time  I  received  an  extra  hard  bump  or  hard 
punch  I  looked  up  only  to  see  that  my  antag 
onist  was  a  Hebrew.  On  the  street,  in  the  cars, 

8 


For  the  Good  of  the  Race 

in  the  subway,  or  at  the  soda  fountain,  when 
ever  I  saw  my  fellow  Jews  blatantly  shouting 
and  rudely  pushing,  I  in  spite  of  my  indig 
nation,  felt  the  love  of  my  race  uppermost  in 
my  heart,  and  I  wanted  to  cry  out: 

"Oh,  Jews!  dear  brothers  and  sisters,  sup 
press  yourselves  for  the  good  of  the  race!" 
Stand  back !  For  the  good  of  the  race!" 

Never  in  the  world  has  our  people  known 
such  a  free  country  as  this,  and  it  is  a  privi- 
leg  to  be  here;  but  at  times  a  great  fear  comes 
over  me  that  we  are  abusing  the  privilege. 
Amid  the  din  of  music  and  laughter,  the  news 
boys  are  shouting  the  names  of  Jewish  murder 
ers  (the  Rosenthal  case),  the  gunmen  of  the 
city.  The  bribe  givers,  the  bribe  takers,  and 
the  gamblers  depicted  in  the  news  sheets  have 
Jewish  countenances — yes!  yes!  I  know  that 
there  are  Christians  who  are  murderers,  gam 
blers  and  informers,  but  the  Jew  is  a  marked 
man.  He  is  distinct,  apart ;  so  distinct  that  in 
a  crowd  he  is  the  first  noticed. 

It  is  for  this  reason  that  I  would  have  my 
brethren  and  sisters  suppress  themselves  and 
stand  back!  I  would  have  real  Jews  take  the 
worst  of  a  bargain  once  in  a  while  for  the  sake 
of  the  race.  I  would  have  them  once  in  a  while 

9 


For  the  Good  of  the  Race 

give  up  their  seats  in  public  conveyances,  be 
have  modestly  in  cafes,  dress  quietly,  and  give 
up  the  use  of  assumed  Christian  names. 

There  is  nothing  so  pathetic  as  the  man  who, 
with  a  Hebrew  face,  assumes  a  Christian 
name.  I  never  go  to  a  public  place  without 
wishing  that  my  fellow  Jew  would  talk  less 
and  appear  less  ostentatious.  When  one  He 
brew  comes  in  late  to  a  theatre,  marches  down 
the  aisle  and  in  the  front  row  deliberately  ob 
structs  the  view  of  people  in  the  audience  as 
he  stands  slowly  removing  and  folding  his  coat 
and  gloves,  he  seems  to  cause  more  annoyance 
than  if  half  a  dozen  Gentiles  did  the  same 
thing.  When  a  Jew  stands  aside  and  waits 
patiently  at  a  ticket  window,  gives  his  seat  to 
a  lady  on  a  street  car  or  behaves  in  a  refined 
manner  in  any  walk  of  life,  he  immediately 
makes  friends  for  our  people. 

Most  of  our  people,  I  have  found,  have  ag 
gressive  personalities;  it  is  this  aggressive 
ness  which  has  enabled  many  immigrants  to 
pass  through  Ellis  Island  to  the  ownership  of 
fine  apartment  houses  all  within  a  couple  of 
years — but  sometimes  this  aggressiveness  be 
comes  absolutely  cruel,  crushing  from  the  very 
soul  all  the  tender  elements  which  go  to  make 
up  a  happy  life. 

10 


For  the  Good  of  the  Race 

Recently  I  thought  with  much  bitterness  of 
my  father's  last  words  to  me:  "If  you  need 
sympathy,  love  or  help,  go  to  your  own  race." 
Ill-health  overcame  me  and  I  became  involved 
in  debt  for  a  trifling  amount.  Each  stage  of 
my  embarrassment  and  consequent  suffering 
was  contributed  to  by  a  brother  Jew.  First, 
the  shyster  lawyer,  without  principle  or  mercy, 
then  his  brutal  clerks,  sly  and  grafting.  Kext 
a  collector  absolutely  callous,  then  the  pro 
cess  server,  and,  at  last,  the  "bouncer,"  sans 
heart,  sans  soul,  sans  everything. 

If  all  these  agents  of  misfortune  were  Gen 
tiles  I  could  have  borne  it,  but  the  greatest 
heartbreak  of  all  was  the  fact  that  one  and  all 
of  them  were  brother  Jews.  Why  must  a  Jew 
always  be  in  at  the  death,  as  it  were? 

There  came  a  time  soon  after  this  when  I 
walked  the  streets  almost  penniless.  Seeking 
work,  I  applied  at  the  store  of  a  wealthy  He 
brew.  I  explained  to  the  well-groomed  pro 
prietor  that  I  was  an  orthodox  member  of  his 
race  and  appealed  on  that  ground  for  a  chance. 
He  pooh-poohed  the  idea. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  he,  "these  are  the  en 
lightened  days,  when  Judaism  is  not  taken 
seriously,  in  fact,  it  doesn't  pay.  I  am  a  Chris- 

11 


For  the  Good  of  the  Race 

tian  now;  I  meet  nice  people  and  it  helps  me 
socially. 

Here  was  a  poor  fool  with  his  head  like  the 
ostrich's — in  the  sand.  I  explained  to  him 
that  being  a  Jew  was  not  a  question  of  religion 
but  a  question  of  blood,  I  told  him  that  if  a 
Jewish  leopard  ceased  visiting  the  synagogue 
to  go  to  a  Christian  chapel  it  did  not  neces 
sarily  get  rid  of  its  spots.  I  left  him  scratch 
ing  his  head,  and  I  also  lost  the  chance  of  a  job 
in  his  store. 

In  and  out  of  offices  presided  over  by  men 
with  Jewish  faces  I  trudged  all  day.  Most  of 
these  men,  I  subsequently  learned,  belonged 
to  New  Thought,  Christian  Socialist  and  other 
up-to-date"  churches  and  societies — it  was  good 
for  their  business.  They  called  themselves 
Christians,  but  nature's  marks  cannot  be 
changed  like  one's  clothes. 

In  the  great  theatrical  districts  I  found 
thousands  of  my  fellow  Jews  who  had  grown 
rich  overnight  by  coining  perhaps  a  blatant 
song  that  had  pleased  the  cabaret-mad  crowd 
or  by  ridiculous  impersonations  of  their  race 
upon  the  music  hall  stages.  A  good  many  of 
these  were  young  men,  sons  of  fathers  and 
mothers  who  had  been  driven  from  their  own 
country  with  fire  and  sword. 

12 


For  the  Good  of  the  Race 

The  mothers  and  fathers  stay  at  home  bless 
ing  God  every  hour  of  the  day  and  night  for 
guiding  them  to  such  a  country  as  this,  while 
the  sons  and  daughters  are  out  at  the  theatres, 
in  the  halls  and  cabarets  under  assumed  names 
fooling  the  Americans  with  their  songs  of 
Dixie.  Passing  by  in  this  great  throng  are 
prominent  actors,  critics  and  playwrights,  all 
under  assumed  names,  simply  because  their 
own  names  are  Jewish. 

Flashing  across  the  horizon  as  I  write  is  a 
notorious  Jewish  doctor  with  a  consumption 
cure.  He  could  have  been  famous  and  honored 
had  he  but  suppressed  himself,  instead  of 
which  he,  with  his  commercial  instinct  and  his 
press  agent  methods,  made  more  enemies  for 
the  race.  Many  Gentiles,  I  will  admit,  have 
had  consumption  cures,  but  it  remained  for 
one  of  our  people  to  float  companies  and  open 
institutions  before  the  "cure"  was  even  re 
ported  upon  by  the  Government. 

Tramping  the  city,  weary  of  looking  for 
friendly  Jewish  faces  I  found  myself  near  the 
City  Kail.  I  approached  a  milk  station  and 
bought  a  cent's  worth  of  the  most  delicious 
milk  I  have  ever  tasted.  A  rough  looking  fel 
low  close  by  who  was  also  drinking,  said,  as  he 
smacked  his  lips: 

13 


For  the  Good  of  the  Race 

"Pretty  good  stuff,  that,"  and,  perhaps  not 
ing  that  I  was  a  stranger,  he  added :  "The  guy 
who  is  doing  this  milk  thing  is  saving  the 
babies  all  right — he's  some  rich  Jew — God 
bless  him — I've  got  three  babies  of  my  own." 

Hungering  to  hear  a  Jew  praised  I  talked 
with  this  man  for  an  hour,  listening  with  keen 
enjoyment  to  the  story  of  one  of  my  race  who 
had  caused  his  millions  to  do  good  for  the 
people  irrespective  of  creed,  and  had  kept  him 
self  suppressed.  I  learned  of  this  Jew's  ef 
forts  for  the  dying  babies  at  home  and  for  his 
starving  co-religionists  in  Palestine,  and  felt 
proud.  Proud  and  happy  for  the  first  time, 
I  sat  by  the  fountain  in  Park  Row  watching 
the  passing  procession  till  I  dozed  off  into  a 
sound  sleep.  My  happiness  continued  in  my 
sleep,  for  I  had  a  most  beautiful  dream. 

Before  me  in  my  dream  passed  a  grand  pa 
rade;  it  was  a  series  of  "For  the  good  of  the 
race"  tableaux.  All  the  prominent  profes 
sional  Jews  headed  the  procession  with  their 
real  names  and  the  name  of  their  race  embla 
zoned  upon  silk  banners  in  letters  of  gold. 
Then  came  all  the  Hebrew  gambling  house 
keepers  bearing  aloft  broken  roulette  wheels 
and  other  emblems  of  a  discarded  and  dis 
graced  "business." 

14 


For  the  Good  of  the  Race 

Next  in  order  was  a  large  army  of  Hebrews 
who  were  professional  bondsmen  for  arrested 
streetwalkers,  headed  by  two  crooked  ward 
politicians  carrying  a  huge  streamer  with  the 
words :  "Henceforth  we  will  go  to  work."  These 
men  looked  a  little  sad  as  they  marched  along 
thinking  of  the  easy  money  they  were  leaving 
behind,  but  the  cheers  of.  the  multitude,  exult 
ing  over  their  great  sacrifice,  somewhat  atoned 
for  their  agony  of  mind. 

Next  came  the  noble  band  of  Hebrew  ticket 
speculators  who  had  resolved  not  to  work  on 
sharing  terms  with  dishonest  theatrical  man 
agers,  and  who  proudly  flaunted  a  flag  upon 
which  was  inscribed:  "Two  dollar  seats  re 
duced  from  ten  dollars  to  two- twenty-five." 
The  people  in  the  theatregoer's  grandstand 
pelted  the  ticket  sellers  with  roses. 

Next  followed  "The  Amalgamated  Jewish 
Usurers  Real  Estate  and  Company  Promoters' 
Union."  This  part  of  the  parade  took  four 
hours  and  a  half  to  pass  a  given  point. 

All  the  marchers  had  discarded  their  expen 
sive  clothing  and  their  diamonds  and  were 
modestly  attired.  They  had  also  discarded 
their  automobiles — many  of  the  prominent 
men  in  this  section  carried  flags  and  banners 

15 


For  the  Good  of  the  Race 

upon  which  were  inscribed  the  legends:  "We 
will  not  lie  about  values."  "We  will  not 
charge  exorbitant  interest"  and  "We  will  not 
water  our  stock."  These  inscriptions  were 
viewed  with  looks  of  astonishment,  and  many 
in  the  crowd  called  out  "We're  from  Missouri," 
whatever  that  meant. 

Then  came  a  torchlight  brigade  called 
"The  Hebrew  Firebugs'  Union."  Near 
ly  all  these  men  had  their  hair  close  cropped 
and  wore  prison  clothes,  a  fact  which  filled 
the  crowd  with  relief.  Next  came  that  part 
of  the  procession  which  showed  the  greatest 
following  among  its  marchers.  It  wras  the 
large  army  of  Hebrew  "aggressives."  Hun 
dreds  and  thousands  of  them  passed  by  with 
reformed  looks  upon  their  faces.  Oh,  I  felt 
so  happy  as  I  read  the  buttons  they  wore  and 
saw  the  flags  they  carried.  Most  of  the  stream 
ers  read :  "We  will  suppress  ourselves."  "We 
will  stand  back  and  keep  quiet."  "We  will  be 
unostentatious."  There  they  were,  hundreds 
of  well-known  faces  and  types — end-seat  hogs, 
front-seat  hogs,  loud  talkers,  inconsiderates, 
bargainers,  and  the  terrible  army  of  people 
that  go  to  make  up  the  crowd  which  is  directly 
responsible  for  the  anti-Semitic  feeling.  The 
line  of  them  was  miles  long. 

16 


For  the  Good  of  the  Race 

I  was  awakened  from  my  happy  dream  by  a 
rude  thump  from  a  Jewish  policeman  who  hur 
ried  me  to  a  police  station,  where  I  was  sur 
rounded  by  shyster  lawyers,  all  my  brethren, 
who  wanted  money  with  which  they  could 
"square"  other  brethren.  I  could  not  gain  the 
services  of  a  Hebrew  bondsman  because  I  had 
no  pull.  A  Hebrew  magistrate  called  me  a 
"bum"  and  a  loafer  for  going  to  sleep  in  a  pub 
lic  park. 

"Keep  awake  in  the  future,"  he  said,  as  I 
was  roughly  bundled  out  of  the  court. 

Keep  awake!  This  is  the  worst  advice  he 
could  have  given  me,  for  I  was  so  happy  asleep 
and  dreaming  that  my  brethren  and  sisters  had 
reformed  and  had  become  real  Jews  for  the 
sake  of  the  race. 

I  now  look  upon  my  police  court  humiliation 
as  the  best  thing  that  could  have  happened  to 
me,  for  a  kindly  old  Jewish  scholar,  who  acted 
as  court  interpreter,  was  attracted  by  my  ap 
pearance.  His  long  contact  with  human  mis 
ery  and  his  great  experience  with  foreigners 
stranded  in  a  strange  country  enabled  him  to 
understand  me. 

That  night  he  took  me  to  his  poverty- 
stricken  little  room  behind  a  delicatessen  shop 

17 


For  the  Good  of  the  Race 

in  the  Ghetto.  After  supper  he  went  to  the 
street  door  and  called  the  neighbors  from  their 
stoops.  He  called  them  by  their  first  names 
and  I  said  Kaddish  for  my  father  as  they  stood 
around  among  the  pickle  barrels. 

Since  then  I  have  lived  among  Jews,  real 
Jews.  I  have  learned  that  beneath  the  ragged 
coat  of  a  push-cart  vendor  there  may  be  a  heart 
of  gold,  and  that  a  poor  seller  of  collar  buttons 
or  suspenders  may  be  a  student  of  the  Tal 
mud  with  a  mind  that  is  a  gift  of  the  gods. 

Leaving  the  seething,  modern,  fashionable 
life  of  upper  Broadway  to  enter  the  religious 
atmosphere  of  the  numerous  schools  of  Jewish 
literature  on  the  East  side  entails  a  violent 
contrast  in  conditions. 

To  see  the  deeply  furrowed,  time-scarred 
faces  of  the  grand  old  men  pouring  over  their 
beloved  Talmud  is  to  get  a  glimpse  of  another 
world — a  world  of  resignation,  peace  and  love. 

Within  earshot  of  the  thundering  traffic  of 
Broadway  I  stood  gazing  at  the  bowed  figures 
engaged  in  study  and  prayer.  As  I  gazed  the 
sordid  walls  of  the  poverty-stricken  room 
faded  from  my  sight,  and  in  their  stead  I  saw 
(in  my  mind's  eye)  the  wailing  wall  of  Jeru 
salem  or  some  ruin  of  the  Holy  City — a  more 

18 


fitting  background  to  the  rabbinical  figures  so 
vstrangely  out  of  place  in  hustling  America. 

The  great  passion  for  the  dead  and  gone  past 
reflected  in  the  Rembrandtesque  faces  of 
the  aged  students  lends  to  their  lives  a  reli 
gious  grandeur  which  the  uptown  tourist 
(hastily  passing  on  a  rubber-neck  wagon) 
would  never  suspect.  Behind  many  a  shabby- 
looking  little  store,  or  maybe  above  some 
corner  saloon,  are  the  societies  for  the  study  of 
Hebrew  literature,  where  congregate  the  types 
of  Jewish  scholars  and  philosophers  that  make 
the  heart  of  the  writer  and  artist  glad. 

Gray-haired,  bewhiskered,  sad  old  men, 
many  of  whom  have  tasted  only  the  bitterness 
of  life — yet  such  is  their  faith  in  the  Almighty 
that  they  cling  to  the  praying  shawl  and  Bible 
to  blot  out  the  memory  of  a  Kishineff — their 
lives  of  study  and  prayer  amid  abject  poverty 
giving  the  lie  to  the  fallacy  that  the  Jew  lives 
but  for  money. 

I  have  often  wandered  among  these  scholars 
picking  up  the  crumbs  of  wisdom  which  fall 
from  the  lips  of  the  old  men,  grateful  that  my 
Jewish  face  and  blood  gave  me  the  privilege  to 
sit  and  sketch  among  them.  Somehow  or  other 
my  ramblings  on  the  East  Side  are  like  the 

19 


For  the  Good  of  the  Race 

calm  after  the  storm  of  the  uptown  struggle. 

Many  times  I  have  felt  the  heart  tug — the 
longing  to  be  among  my  people — the  real  Jews 
—and,  leaving  theatrical  uptowm,  the  land  of 
make-believe  and  unrest,  I  have  sought  the 
little  schools  of  study  where  the  wonderfully 
real  old  men  who  live  by  optimism  and  nourish 
their  souls  by  faith  teach  me  the  lesson  of  pa 
tience  and  the  love  of  humanity. 

There  is  something  restful  and  inspiring 
when  an  old  man — long,  long  past  the  Biblical 
three  score  and  ten — places  his  hand  on  your 
shoulder  and  murmurs  in  Yiddish,  "It  is  God's 
will."  I  have  envied  the  profound  peace  of 
many  of  these  aged  students  living  in  the  past 
and  undisburbed  by  thoughts  of  the  future. 
Their  Jewish  view  of  life  is  as  beautiful  as  it 
is  simple.  It  disregards  neither  earth  nor 
heaven.  It  looks  to  earth  and  observes  the  evil 
prevailing  among  men ;  it  thinks  of  heaven  and 
ponders  on  the  bliss  of  "the  future  state,"  and 
it  urges  man  to  strive  to  bring  heaven  on  earth, 
to  establish  by  justice  and  equity  those  blessed 
conditions  on  earth  which  so  many  associate 
with  heaven. 

Their  Jewish  view  of  death  is  equally  beau 
tiful.  For  those  who  die  they  feel  no  sorrow. 

20 


For  the  Good  of  the  Race 

Having  once  torn  aside  the  veil  which  parts 
the  known  and  the  unknown,  having  once  en 
tered  into  the  shadow,  or  rather  the  sunshine, 
of  the  beyond,  they  are  better  off  in  the  other 
life.  Whether  death  means  eternal  sleep  or 
eternal  life,  those  who  have  left  our  side,  hav 
ing  passed  into  the  arms  of  pitiless  death,  re 
pose  in  a  condition  which  should  give  surviv 
ors  no  cause  for  anxiety  on  account  of  their 
beloved  dead. 

In  the  pathetic  chapter  of  "The  Old  Curi 
osity  Shop,"  in  which  Dickens  tells  of  the 
death  of  Little  Nell,  he  makes  the  Schoolmas 
ter  utter  these  words  of  wisdom,  on  which  all 
who  mourn  their  dead  may  well  ponder:  "If," 
he  said,  "one  deliberate  wish  expressed  in  sol 
emn  terms  above  the  bed  could  call  her  back 
to  life,  which  of  us  would  utter  it?" 

Dickens  took  this  view  of  death  from  the 
Talmud. 

The  interpretation  of  a  difficult  passage 
from  the  Talmud,  or  the  coining  of  an  epigram, 
is  as  food  and  wine  to  the  wise  old  students, 
and  there  is  not  an  ill  in  their  lives  that  can 
not  be  soothed  or  a  blessing  that  cannot  be  ack 
nowledged  in  a  quotation  from  their  beloved 
book.  To  watch  them  at  their  study  and  devo- 

21 


For  the  Good  of  the  Race 

tions,  undisturbed  by  the  turmoil  about  them 
is  to  marvel  at  the  faith  which  has  enabled 
some  of  them  to  live  more  than  one  hundred 
years  with  no  other  interest  in  life  than  their 
God  and  their  books. 

From  the  dingy  windows  of  the  schools  the 
mass  of  sordid  buildings  look  to  their  eyes  like 
the  hills  of  Palestine,  and  the  shriek  of  the 
passing  elevated  trains  and  the  clanging  of  the 
car  bells  and  the  din  of  passing  traffic  dis 
turb  them  not,  for  they  live  in  the  past. 

The  alleged  Jew  of  the  fashionable  uptown 
lobster  palaces — the  blatant,  pushing  type, 
who  is  the  direct  cause  of  much  anti-Semitic 
feeling — knows  and  cares  nothing  for  the  sub 
merged  student  of  his  race.  The  latter  is 
equally  oblivous  of  the  alleged  Jew  who  is  con 
temptuously  referred  to  as  a  Meshumud  (apos 
tate).  But  while  the  former  stands  out  in  the 
world  of  money  and  worldly  success  as  a  tar 
get  for  much  abuse  and  hatred,  the  latter  lives 
with  books,  unknown  and  unheeded,  drawing 
from  the  Talmud  a  joy  that  riches  cannot  buy 
and  solacing  himself  with  the  love  of  human 
ity. 

In  strong  contrast  to  their  fathers  and 
grandfathers  are  the  children  of  these  old  men. 

22 


For  the  Good  of  the  Race 

Modern  America,  with  its  opportunities  for 
all,  has  torn  them  from  the  religious  atmos 
phere  and  sent  them  uptown  to  become  the 
lawyers,  the  artists  and  the  actors. 

The  Jewish  comedian  of  the  vaudeville 
theatre  who  nightly  sets  the  audience  shriek 
ing  at  his  Yiddish  idioms  is,  in  nine  cases  out 
of  ten,  the  son  of  a  scholar,  and,  though  the 
glamour  of  Broadway  success  claims  him  and 
he  no  longer  lives  home,  in  his  heart  of  hearts 
he  is  a  Jew  and  never  forgets  the  old  people. 
He  will  tell  many  stories  of  his  parents  to  his 
Gentile  friends,  imitating  and  exaggerating 
their  many  characteristics,  but  he  is  mighty 
sore  when  he  hears  a  Gentile  do  the  same 
thing.  But,  after  all,  the  comic  Jew  of  the 
modern  stage  is  but  an  imaginary  sketch. 

There  is  absolutely  nothing  humorous  in 
these  old  men  of  Judea.  Even  in  the  sordid 
surroundings  where  you  find  them  engaged  in 
prayer  or  study  their  attitude  is  one  of  quiet 
dignity — a  dignity  enhanced  by  their  extreme 
old  age. 

In  a  little  dark  den  behind  a  poultry  store 
I  was  sketching  some  of  the  old  men  at  study. 
One  old  fellow  one  hundred  and  four  years  old 
was  explaining  to  a  young  fellow  of  sixty  a 

23 


For  the  Good  of  the  Race 

passage  in  the  Talmud  which  the  latter  was  in 
doubt  about.  Both  men  were  without  coats. 
The  younger  man  had  left  his  pushcart  at  the 
door,  entirely  forgetting  the  perishable  goods 
thereon  and  quite  oblivious  to  the  fact  that 
hundreds  of  dirty  children  were  surrounding 
his  cart,  and  fooling  with  his  wares. 

Other  old  men  were  in  the  school,  and  the 
background  to  their  sombre  faces  was  the  shop 
with  its  ghastly  poultry  suspended  by  the 
necks.  One  of  the  old  Talmudic  students  would 
now  and  again  leaves  his  ponderous  Bible  to 
serve  in  the  shop,  returning  after  wrapping  a 
fowl,  in  a  newspaper  to  the  verse  lie  had  been 
propounding.  There  was  absolutely  nothing 
humorous  in  all  this,  but  I  would  love  to  have 
had  some  of  my  non-Jewish  friends  see  how 
little  thought  of  money  and  business  the  real 
Jew  has. 

Sometimes  when  I  have  felt  full  of  shame 
at  the  behavior  in  public  places  of  men  and 
women  with  Jewish  faces,  but  with  no  Juda 
ism  in  their  hearts,  I  have  wished  that  the 
simple,  studious  lives  of  the  old  men  of  the 
East  Side  could  be  the  standard  by  which  our 
race  is  judged,  and  that  the  Talmudic  saying 

24 


For  the  Good  of  ihe^Race 

so  aptly  put  into  verse  by  Eabbi  Myers  was 
better  known: 

"Which  is  the  path,  both  right  and  wise, 
That  for  himself  a  man  should  find? 

That  which  himself  most  dignifies, 

And  brings  him  honor  from  mankind." 

UptowTn  again,  I  entered  the  swirl  of  hu 
manity — the  jostling,  surging,  fighting  mob  of 
the  subway,  the  inane  shows,  the  swarming 
restaurants,  the  everlasting  orchestras  playing 
the  everlasting  coon  melodies.  It  was  hard 
to  believe  that  the  land  of  dreamers  is  only  a 
few  short  blocks  awTay. 

I  entered  a  theatre.  Some  people  with  Jew 
ish  faces  were  standing  in  the  front  row  lazily 
removing  their  coats  and  blocking  the  view  of 
the  rest  of  the  audience.  The  man  next  me 
angrily  muttered  something  about  "Those 
damn  Jews." 

I  thought  with  pride  of  the  old  men  of  the 
Chevrahs  and  the  lines  of  Joaquin  Miller  came 
to  my  mind : 

"Who  taught  you  tender  Bible  tales 
Of  honey  lands,  of  milk  and  wine; 
Of  happy  peaceful  Palestine, 

25 


For  the  Good  of  the  Race 

Of  Jordan's  holy  harvest  vales? 

Who  gave  the  patient  Christ?    I  say 

Who  gave  your  Christian's  creed?    Yea,  Yea. 

Who  gave  your  very  God  to  you? 

Your  Jew!     Your  Jew!     Your  hated  Jew!" 


26 


THE   VACHER'S 
DA  UGHTER 


A  little  story  of  downtown  and  uptown,  from 
tenement  house  to  stardom,  of  which  the  moral 
is :  Wood  is  thicker  and  far  more  important 
than  theatrical  success. 


ESTHER  MEYEEOWITZ  was  alone. 
She   was   tired   of   the   squalor   of   the 
teeming  tenement  where  she  lived. 

Of  course  she -had  been  told  time  and  again 
about  her  beauty  and  what  a  "hit"  she  would 
make  on  the  stage.  A  pretty  girl  will  sooner 
or  later  hear  that  sort  of  thing. 

Esther  had  led  a  very  lonely  life  in  the 
wretched  room  on  the  top  floor  back,  with  her 
father,  who  was  known  as  "Abe,  the  vacher" 
(watcher  of  the  dead). 

It  is  the  custom  when  a  Jew  dies,  to  have 
one  of  the  faith  watching  by  the  corpse  till 
burial,  and  Esther's  father  had  been  kept  busy 
since  his  arrival  from  Odessa,  watching  by  the 
silent  forms  of  his  co-religionists,  easy  vic 
tims  of  the  over-crowded,  ill-ventilated  tene 
ments  and  sweatshops. 

27 


The  Vacher's  Daughter 

In  his  native  country,  in  order  better  to  kill, 
plunder  or  persecute  the  Jew,  the  old  and 
bitter  cry  had  again  gone  up,  the  cry  that  the 
Jews  had  murdered  some  missing  Christian 
child  for  the  sake  of  using  its  blood  in  the 
Hebrew  ritual.  Down  through  the  centuries 
at  almost  regular  intervals  this  monstrous  lie 
had  raised  its  venomous  head  to  blot  out,  each 
time,  a  few  more  precious  Jewish  lives. 

One  night  Abraham  heard  that  cry  and  fled 
with  Mena,  his  wife,  to  the  already  packed 
steerage  of  an  American  bound  vessel,  and  he 
eventually  entered  Paradise,  per  Ellis  Island 
— the  gateway  to  Zion. 

With  fond  hopes  he  and  Mena  started  in  the 
new  world  of  freedom,  hopes  that  were  rudely 
shattered  when  little  Esther  was  born,  leaving 
Abraham  a  widower  to  struggle,  unfitted  as 
he  was,  through  life  alone.  The  poor  pay  of  a 
Vacher — he  watched  by  the  biers  of  those  as 
poor  as  himself — barely  kept  father  and  child 
alive,  but  a  dreamer  such  as  Abraham  was 
fitted  for  nothing  else. 


As  a  child  Esther  spent  her  life  on  a  dingy 
stoop,  her  vision  bounded  on  one  side  by  Men 
del's  fish  shop  and  on  the  other  by  Levinsky's 

28 


The  Vacher's  Daughter 

drapery  store.  In  front  of  her  was  a  myriad 
of  push  carts  which  shut  out  the  little  daylight 
so  begrudgingly  admitted  by  the  "L"  whose 
tracks  occupied  the  whole  width  of  the  sordid 
street. 

As  the  child  grew  into  young  womanhood, 
splendid  of  figure  and  beautiful,  there  were 
plenty  to  remind  her  what  easy  money  she 
could  make  as  a  model  uptown  and  many  an 
artist  found  his  way  past  the  stoop  to  linger 
a  while  and  Jill  the  girl's  head  with  idle  dreams. 
Uptown  with  its  theatres,  restaurants  and  its 
fashionable  life  was  to  her  a  sealed  book,  but 
she  determined  during  her  father's  long 
absences  from  home  to  break  the  seal  and  take 
one  little  look. 

A  beautiful  girl  is  always  a  marketable  com 
modity  on  Broadway  and  so  room  was  made 
for  Esther,  as  soon  as  she  struck  the  "white 
lights,"  in  the  beauty  chorus  of  a  popular  musi 
cal  comedy. 

By  and  by  she  became  ashamed  of  the 
wretched  top  floor  back  of  a  Ghetto  tenement 
and  she  determined  to  live  with  the  rest  of  the 
girls  at  a  popular  hotel  in  the  theatrical  dis 
trict  so  that  she  could  be  nearer  her  work. 

Esther  broke  the  news  to  her  father  rather 

29 


The  Vacher's  Daughter 

abruptly,  softening  the  blow,  as  it  were,  by  a 
few,  almost  real,  tears,  a  promise  to  return  and 
provide  him  with  a  beautiful  and — well,  you 
know  the  things  a  girl  can  say  to  soothe  a 
fond,  old-fashioned  parent. 

To  Abraham,  America  meant  a  few  blocks 
near  his  wretched  room  where  there  were  al 
ways  houses  of  mourning  in  which  his  services 
were  required  and  he  never  seemed  to  reach  be 
yond  those  few  blocks.  The  vast  uptown  dis 
trict  where  the  rich  folk  lived  and  where  his 
Esther  had  gone,  was  to  him  some  shadowy 
unknown  where  people  spoke  no  Yiddish,  and 
where  there  was  no  Judaism,  and  he  never 
dreamt  of  venturing  there. 

He  felt  grieved  at  Esther's  departure  from 
his  home,  a  grief  that  was  more  of  fear  than 
sorrow — a  fear  of  what  would  become  of  her 
away  from  her  kind,  and  a  fear  that  the  good 
God  would  surely  visit  him  with  some  terrible 
punishment  for  not  keeping  his  promise  to  his 
dying  wife  that  he  would  keep  the  baby  always 
beside  him.  And  so  he  turned  to  his  great 
musty  Talmud — as  he  had  always  done  in  time 
of  sorrow — and  sought  comfort  and  guidance. 


Now  in  order  to  push  on  with  this  story  it 
30 


The  Vacher's  Daughter 

would  be  an  easy  matter  to  have  Esther  figure 
in  a  breach -of -promise  or  to  mix  her  in  some 
scandal  thereby  qualifying  her  as  the  latest 
headliner  for  vaudeville,  at  twenty-five  hun 
dred  per  week.  But  Esther  with  her  power  of 
mimicry,  her  beautiful  voice  in  addition  to 
the  aggressive  attributes  of  her  wonderful  race, 
soon  became  a  celebrity  in  her  own  right,  the 
first  sign  of  which  was  the  necessity  of  chang 
ing  her  name  from  Meyerowitz  to  Montague— 
so,  as  Daisy  Montague,  the  electrics  made  it 
known  to  Broadway  that  she  was  a  headliner 
and  as  Daisy  Montague  she  occupied  the  stage 
dressing-room,  "sassed* '  the  house  manager  and 
wore  the  furs  of  several  admirers.  As  her  news 
paper  notices  grew,  her  mental  picture  of  the 
old  father  she  had  known  so  little  decreased  till 
he  was  but  a  faint  memory  and  her  inquiries  as 
to  his  welfare  ceased  altogether. 

The  strenuous  life  of  a  successful  star  soon 
became  hers.  So  many  interviewers  and 
thousands  of  pictures  of  the  famous  Miss  Mon 
tague  were  continually  before  the  public,  and 
she  was  so  much  in  demand  at  suppers,  dances 
and  important  functions  that  if  anyone  had 
gone  up  behind  Esther  and  addressed  her  as 
Meyerowitz,  the  popular  idol  would  have  had 

31 


The  Vacher's  Daughter 

him  arrested.  She  got  to  be  so  famous  that 
when  people,  noting  her  beautiful  Semitic  eyes, 
inquired:  "Are  you  Jewish?"  she  would  reply: 
"No!  That  is — eh — well — not  exactly,  but  I 
believe  my  great-great-grandfather  had  a  little, 
just  a  little  tiny  drop  of  Jewish  blood." 

Once  Danny  Lazarus,  a  Hebrew  comedian, 
beloved  by  everyone  in  the  company,  earned  her 
undying  enmity  by  mailing  to  Miss  Montague's 
apartment  per  parcel  post  a  package  of  Mat- 
zoths  (passover  cakes)  which  she  excitedly 
opened  before  the  French  maid  and  a  couple 
of  admirers — to  whom  she  was  boasting  that 
she  expected  some  flowers  from  Belasco! 


A  time  came  when  her  father,  poring  over 
his  musty  prayer  books  in  the  squalor  of  his 
tenement  room  longed  for  the  touch  of  his  own 
flesh  and  blood.  He  greedily  scanned  the  Yid 
dish  papers  for  a  word  or  a  picture  of  his 
daughter  who  had  gone  away  to  become  fa 
mous  on  the  stage.  Downtown,  in  the  neighbor 
hood  where  she  was  born,  none  could  tell  him 
anything  of  her,  for  as  Miss  Montague  she  was 
unknown  to  them — but — within  a  few  blocks 
her  name  was  on  thousands  of  lips. 

The  music  stores  bore  her  pictures  printed 

32 


The  V acker's  Daughter 

upon  the  latest  song  successes  and  the  drug 
stores  prominently  displayed  her  signed  affida 
vits  to  the  effect  that  their  particular  cold 
cream  was  responsible  for  her  exquisite  com 
plexion.  She  had  even  achieved  the  fame  of 
having  a  chocolate  sundae  named  after  her, 
and  it  Avas  rumored  that  a  cigar  might  be  hon 
ored  in  the  same  way. 

Abraham  in  his  intense  longing  to  see  Es 
ther  made  a  pilgrimage  to  Broadway,  the  un 
known. 

The  presence  of  this  shabby  old  Hebrew  on 
the  big  street  caused  many  a  wise  guy  to  sit 
up  and  take  notice,  but  Abraham  was  oblivious 
to  the  gaze  of  the  curious  and  the  smiles  of  the 
unthinking.  Esther's  father  was  inspired  by 
confidence  as  the  big  policeman  guided  him 
through  the  maze  of  traffic — over  the  danger 
ous  crossings.  Hitherto  the  sight  of  a  uni 
formed  man  swinging  a  club  was  as  a  danger 
signal  to  the  shrinking  old  man  whose  memory 
was  full  of  the  crimes  of  the  blood-mad  Cos 
sacks  and  high  officials  of  his  native  town. 

The  great  big  torrent  of  uptown  life  caught 
the  old  man  and  swept  him  helplessly  along  in 
its  grasp.  The  teeming  life  in  the  big  street  is 
much  like  the  rapids  of  Niagara  rushing,  swirl  - 

33 


ing  and  surging  along,  ruthlessly  sweeping 
aside  all  obstacles,  and  unmercifully  over 
whelming  that  which  is  not  big  enough  to  keep 
its  head  above  water.  The  kindly  old  Hebrew 
was  wedged  by  the  mighty  torrent  into  the  the 
atrical  district,  the  shallowest  part  of  the  great 
stream. 


Here  guarded  only  by  love,  he  began  his 
search  for  Esther.  AVhat  a  monkey  they  made 
of  the  old  man,  whose  only  crime  in  such  an  at 
mosphere,  was  that  he  possessed  a  heart  hun 
gry  for  his  child.  Smart  young  men  of  the 
race,  made  rich  in  the  show  business,  in  answer 
to  his  inquiries  for  Esther  Meyerowitz,  sneer- 
ingly  directed  him  to  a  delicatessen  shop  and 
finding  that  Abraham  read  and  spoke  no  Eng 
lish,  they  provided  him  with  a  note  to  De 
handed  to  the  shopkeeper.  The  note  read' 
"Five  ham  sandwiches,  two  dill  pickles  ana  a 
bottle  of  milk."  Xeedless  to  say  they  followed 
up  to  sec  the  fun  as  the  old  man  was  turned 
into  the  street  by  the  irate  shopkeeper  when 
Abraham  refused  to  accept  and  pay  for  the 
goods. 

Many  were  the  heartless  tricks  played  upon 
the  harmless  old  man  by  boys  and  girls,  young 

34 


The  Vacher's  Daughter 

men  and  old,  who  had  climbed  to  their  present 
affluence  on  the  shoulders  of  such  fathers  as  he. 
At  nine  out  of  ten  offices  where  the  old  man 
called  for  his  only  child,  he  was  met  with  a 
curt  "no  collar  buttons  today,"  before  he  could 
open  his  month.  In  one  place  while  the  clerk 
held  Abraham's  attention,  the  office  boy  affixed 
to  his  back  a  placard  bearing  the  title  of  the 
latest  inane  song  success,  and  for  the  better 
part  of  two  hours  the  old  fellow  unconsciously 
wandered  about  advertising  the  song  till  a 
passerby,  perhaps  remembering  his  own  father 
charitably  relieved  him  of  the  joke. 

That  night  the  weary  and  footsore  old  man 
wandered  past  a  theatre  and  was  attracted  by 
the  flaring  posters  of  Daisy  Montague,  the  lat 
est  Broadway  star — the  posters  looked  to  Abra 
ham  something  like  his  Esther. 

A  gang  of  stage  hands  and  chorus  men  loung 
ing  at  the  stage  door  saw  in  the  old  man  a 
fine  opportunity  for  sport.  Timidly  Abraham 
approached  and  asked  for  Esther.  Quickly  he 
was  jostled  and  his  hat  snatched  from  his  head, 
then  the  funny  man  of  the  group  sneaked  up 
behind  the  old  man  and  entagled  a  handful  of 
wooden  shavings  in  his  whiskers.  How  the 
gang  did  yell  with  laughter!  The  antics  of  the 

35 


The  Vacher's  Daughter 

low  comedian  inside  the  theatre  could  not  raise 
a  smile  among  them  but  the  pathetic  attempts 
of  the  old  man  to  rid  himself  of  his  tormentors 
filled  this  mob  of  cheap  theatricals  with  fiend 
ish  joy.  Abraham  began  to  think  he  was  back 
in  Kussia,  for  around  him  were  the  same  mock 
ing  faces  he  remembered  from  the  streets  of 
Odessa. 


"My  God!"  he  murmured  in  Yiddish,  "are 
these  the  Godless  people  amongst  whom  my 
poor  little,  unprotected  Esther  has  strayed?" 

The  old  man,  weak  from  his  day's  wander 
ing  and  the  rough  treatment  he  received, 
dropped  fainting  upon  the  sidewalk  and  a 
crowd  quickly  gathered  about  him. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Miss  Montague, 
noticing  the  crowd  as  she  left  the  stage  door  to 
step  into  her  sumptuous  automobile. 

"Only  a  Jew,"  answered  someone. 

"Only  a  Jew."  How  momentous  those  three 
words;  they  have  gone  down  from  generation 
to  generation,  growing  in  significance. 

Before  a  famous  painting  in  a  great  gallery 
in  the  old  world  stood  worshipping  pilgrims 
from  the  four  corners  of  the  earth.  They  stood 
bareheaded,  reverent,  attracted  by  the  repre- 

36 


The  Vacher's  Daughter 

sentation  of  a  pale  faced,  bearded  man  whose 
wonderfully  sad  eyes  comforted  the  whole 
world.  It  was  the  face  of  the  Savior — "Only 
a  Jew." 

Pushing  her  wray  through  the  crowd,  Miss 
Montague  saw  the  wan  face  of  the  stricken  man 
and  in  a  flash  she  became  Esther  Meyerowitz. 
The  sight  of  her  father  had  warmed  her  blood 
and  broke  down  all  barriers  which  her  new 
name  had  temporarily  erected  between  her  and 
her  race,  and  she  wept  as  she  tenderly  em 
braced — crying  aloud,  unashamed,  "Daddy,  my 
poor,  poor  Daddy !" 

The  same  willing  stage  hands  who  so  re 
cently  had  pummelled  Abraham  were  only  too 
proud  to  help  him,  in  his  newly  acquired  role 
of  Daisy  Montague's  father,  into  the  waiting 
automobile,  and  a  few  minutes  later  the  old 
man  was  "uncomfortable"  in  an  elegant  apart 
ment  with  a  French  maid  offering  him  creme- 
de-menthe  and  respectfully  addressing  him  as 
M'sieur  Mont-a-gue  instead  of  "Abe  the 
vacher." 

Esther  was  in  the  reception  room  giving 
out  a  story,  assisted  by  the  press  agent,  to 
the  many  reporters  who  had  been  called, 
Abraham  wandered  about  the  sumptuous 

37 


The  Vacher's  Daughter 

room,  getting  his  feet  entangled  in  the  rare 
rugs  and  almost  upsetting  a  marble  group  of 
Weber  &  Fields. 

Staring  down  at  him  from  the  walls  were 
portraits  of  Lillian  Russel,  Eva  Tanguay,  John 
Drew  and  dozens  of  others,  all  autographed  in 
the  same  hand  writing,  and  as  if  to  add  to  his 
misery  the  polite  Jap  butler  stole  softly  in,  and 
adjusting  the  phonograph,  set  going  a  record 
of  Al  Jolson  singing  a  coon  song,  while  the 
maid,  with  the  best  of  intentions,  handed  the 
old  man  a  copy  of  "The  Morning  Telegraph.'' 

It  was  almost  dawn  when  Esther  finished  her 
press  work  and  sat  down  by  her  father's  side. 
Then  she  gave  vent  to  the  only  real  emotion 
which  she  had  felt  since  she  had  left  the  Ghetto. 
Holding  her  father's  hand  and  pillowing  his 
head  on  her  shoulder,  it  came  home  to  her  that 
she  never  possessed  a  mother  and  that  here  was 
the  only  unselfish  love  she  really  knew,  and  so 
for  the  first  time  in  many  months  she  spoke  her 
native  Yiddish  and  cried  real  tears. 

Recovering  herself,  she  began  to  tell  her 
father  of  all  she  had  achieved  since  she  had  left 
home.  To  the  old  man,  her  "hits,"  her  "en 
cores,  bows  and  notices"  were  as  Greek.  She 
showed  her  father  with  pride  the  wonderfully 

38 


The  Vacher's  Daughter 

up-to-date  appointments  of  her  elegant  apart 
ment,  but  even  the  magnificently  tiled  bath 
room  with  its  polished  faucets  made  no  impres 
sion  on  the  old  man  for  there  was  something 
missing — something  more  precious  to  him  than 
gold  or  silver. 

Going  to  the  entrance  to  the  apartment,  he 
felt  upon  the  door-frame  for  the  Mezuzah,  but 
to  his  grief  he  found  it  not.  All  the  world,  over 
the  pious  Jew  fixes  on  the  door-post  of  his 
house,  or  wherever  his  home  may  be,  the  Me 
zuzah,  a  rectangular  piece  of  parchment  upon 
which  is  inscribed  sacred  passages  from  Deu 
teronomy,  rolled  up  and  encased  in  a  metal 
tube.  On  the  outer  side  of  the  top  of  the  parch 
ment  is  written  the  name  of  God.  The  obliga 
tion  of  the  sacred  little  emblem  is  derived  from 
the  command,  '"And  thou  shalt  write  them  on 
the  door-posts  of  they  house  and  within  thy 
gates."  On  entering  or  leaving  the  house  a 
good  Jew  touches  the  Mezuzah  with  his  hand 
and  recites  a  prayer.  The  Mezuzah  brings 
blessings  to  him  who  touches  it,  but  it  must  not 
be  touched  with  unclean  hands. 

Nothing  that  Esther  could  do  or  say  would 
persuade  the  pious  old  man  to  remain  longer 
in  her  home  unsanctified  by  the  Mezuzah,  so 

39 


The  Vacher's  Daughter 

he  left  to  make  his  way  alone  through  the  snow 
covered  streets  to  his  lonely  Ghetto  room. 

The  clanging  bells  of  a  speeding  tire  appar 
atus  tilled  the  still  night,  and  poor  Abraham, 
bewildered  by  the  noise  and  the  shouts  in  a 
strange  tongue  and  the  dazzling  lights,  fell 
upon  the  icy  road  and  was  mangled  by  the  on- 
rushing  engines. 

He  tried  to  speak  as  they  lifted  him  into  an 
ambulance.  "Oh!  God!  Mine  Esther!"  he 
gasped,  pointing  to  a  huge  poster  of  Daisy 
Montague  on  the  side  of  the  theatre  where  he 
had  been  struck  down. 

"Poor  boob,  he's  cashed  in,"  said  the  cop 
who  helped  to  lift  him.  "I  guess  he's  ravin'— 
t'inks  he's  the  father  of  that  swell  dame,  Daisy 
Montague." 


40 


LENA  AND  JOE 

THEY  had  sailed  together  for  nearly  ten 
years,  as  partners — later  as  husband 
and  wife — o'er  the  troublous  seas  of  vaude 
ville,  this  young  Jewish  couple,  till  re 
ligious  differences  almost  parted  them.  Some 
how  or  other  she  became  infatuated,  so  he 
said,  with  the  latest  Christian  cult,  while  he 
became  even  more  orthodox,  so  she  said,  in  the 
ways  of  the  Chosen  People. 

"Lena,"  he  would  often  say — almost  in 
despair — "if  you  would  only  be  less,  eh,  what 
you  call  spiritual  I  would  love  you  more. 
You  are  too  damn  perfect  for  such  a  bum  as 
me  and  I  can't  stand  it.  Y'ou  used  to  be  a 
reg'lar  feller  and  clown  with  the  gang  on  the 
bill" — all  this  because  Lena  of  late  preferred 
going  home  to  read  and  study  rather  than  sit 
ting  around  smoky  grills  till  all  hours  listen 
ing  to  ribald  songs. 

The  little  rift  within  the  lute  developed  into 
dressing-room  scraps  about  the  spiritual  and 
the  material,  which  were  prolonged  right  up 
to  the  moment  when  they  stood  in  the  wings, 
where  the  stage-hands  whispered  that  Lena 
and  Joe  did  not  kiss  as  they  used  to  before 
going  on. 

And,  too,  the  act  didn't  "go  over"  with  the 
41 


Lena  and  Joe 


accustomed  "bang."  Lena  was  losing  her 
wicked  little  ways,  so  Joe  said,  which  used  to 
catch  the  audience  so  well,  and  he  blamed 
their  failure  on  her  bee-u-ti-ful  thoughts. 

"For  the  love  of  Mike,"  he  would  yell  at  her 
after  the  act,  "you  gave  a  punk  show ;  where's 
your  ginger — your  pep?"  And  then  for  the 
edification  of  the  rest  of  the  bill  within  ear 
shot  he  would  bawl  her  out  unmercifully. 

"Joe,  dear,"  is  all  Lena  would  answer  when 
he  had  calmed  down  for  a  moment.  "Count 
your  blessings  and  be  grateful  that  I  look 
upon  applause,  success,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing  as  material." 

Joe  would  get  back  at  her  in  rather  a  mean 
way  when  she  needed  a  dollar  or  two  for  sup 
per  or  anything  else.  "Money!"  he  would  snap 
at  her.  "Money  is  only  material — you'll  get 
none  from  me;  go  out  and  have  a  mental 
feed." 

Things  came  to  such  a  pass  that  Lena  and 
Joe  did  not  eat  together.  They  hardly  ever 
spoke  to  each  other  excepting  in  the  act.  After 
the  matinees  they  went  their  separate  ways 
till  they  met  in  the  dressing  room  to  make  up 
for  the  night  show. 

Heartsick  and  haggard  from  fretting,  Joe 

42 


Lena  and  Joe 


tried  to  still  his  turbulent  mind  by  long  lone 
some  walks  between  shows.  One  afternoon, 
more  troubled  than  usual,  he  walked  and 
walked  till  he  found  himself,  footsore  and 
weary,  at  dusk,  in  an  outlying  section  of  the 
city  where  the  warm  light  from  a  little  res 
taurant  window  reminded  him  he  would  bet 
ter  eat.  He  crossed  the  road,  and  noticing  the 
sign  "Kosher  Restaurant,"  entered,  to  find 
only  one  other  diner.  It  was  Lena. 

She  had  been  walking  and  worrying,  too. 

Joe  sat  at  the  same  table.  Neither  of  them 
would  speak  first.  The  Yiddish  waiter 
brought  Joe  a  plate  of  hot  soup  with  kreplach 
— the  same  as  Lena  was  having — after  which 
they  both  partook  of  gefilte  fish — still  in  si 
lence — then  came  the  matzoth  pudding  and  the 
Russian  tea  with  lemon.  Still  neither  of  them 
would  make  the  first  advance.  Just  then  the 
waiter  changed  the  record  on  the  Victrola 
from  "My  Sweetie"  to — what  do  you  think? 
"Kol  Nidre,"  sung  by  Rabbi  Sirota. 

As  the  beautiful  tones  of  the  cantor  rang 
out  in  the  grand  old  Hebrew  melody,  Lena 
was  deeply  stirred.  Somehow  or  other  the 
music  and  the  familiar  home-cooked  food  re-' 

43 


Lena  and  Joe 


minded  her  of  her  own  orthodox  and  pious 
parents  and  she  began  to  sob. 

"Lena!  My  Lena!"  gasped  the  overjoyed 
Joe,  stretching  across  the  table  to  hold  her 
hand.  'After  all,  you  see,  you  are  a  Jewess  at 
heart." 

"No!  No!  Joe,  dear,  it's  not  my  heart 
that's  Jewish ;  it's  my  stomach,"  sobbed  Lena 
as  she  resumed  her  matzoth  pudding. 


SPIKE  AND  RED 

(En  route  to  Jacksonville,  Fla.,  via  Columbia,  S.  C.) 

THE  audience  has  long  since  gone.  The 
baggageman  has  taken  the  last  trunks 
from  the  dressing  rooms,  all  the  lights 
are  switched  off  and  I  am  left  alone  in  the 
darkness  of  a  strange  city  to  make  my  way  to 
the  depot — one  of  those  depots — you  know — 
across  the  tracks  by  the  river — way  back  of  the 
town. 

There  is  not  a  taxi  in  sight  (there  is  a 
big  social  event — a  "Woodman  of  the  World" 
dance  on,  and  all  the  jitneys  are  very  busy) 
so  I  struggle  and  stumble  with  my  heavy 
grip  to  within  twenty-five  feet  of  my  goal, 
when  out  pops  a  negro  from  behind  a  dark 
wall  and  kindly  offers  to  carry  it  the  rest  of 
the  way  for  two  bits. 

How  friendless  and  lonesome  one  feels  wait 
ing  down  by  the  dark  tracks,  while  a  seem 
ingly  endless  freight  train  shunts  backward 
and  forward  as  if  maliciously  inclined  to  keep 
one  from  the  warmth  of  the  waiting  room  on 
the  other  side.  Arriving  there  at  last,  foot 
sore  and  weary,  I  discover,  much  to  my  dis 
gust,  that  the  train  is  three  hours  late.  Well, 
the  lunch  room  is  closed,  so  there  is  nothing 
to  do  but  walk  the  dreary  half -lit  depot,  with 

45 


Spike  and  Red 


its  shadowy  forms  of  men  and  women 
stretched  on  the  benches  in  the  last  stages  of 
weariness  and  exhaustion.  In  the  section  for 
colored  folk  are  many  old  mammies  with 
broods  of  sleeping  "picks"  nestling  close  to 
them,  while  close  by  is  a  group  of  negroes 
quietly  playing  cards  on  an  upturned  suitcase. 

It  looked  like  three  hours  of  misery  for  me. 
when  lo  and  behold,  Spike  and  Red,  the  two 
dancing  wonders  from  the  small  time  house, 
hove  in  sight  looking  for  the  baggage  room. 
"Say,  Rabbi,"  said  Red,  addressing  me, 
"where's  the  guy  wot  shoots  our  dog  houses 
into  the  next  burg?" 

Spike  and  Red  looked  to  me  (at  that  hour 
and  that  place)  like  an  oasis  of  fun  in  a  desert 
of  lonesomeness,  so  I  gladly  piloted  them  to 
the  baggage  room.  After  "weighing  in,"  Red 
delivered  an  invective  against  all  small  time 
"lunch  rooms  that' close  just  about  the  time 
that  actors  get  hungry"  and  out  of  spite,  he 
suggested  that  we  bestow  our  patronage  on 
an  awful  looking  place,  with  "eats"  written 
over  the  door,  just  across  the  tracks.  I  never 
would  have  dreamed  of  entering  such  a  place, 
alone,  but  with  Spike  and  Red  by  my  side,  it 
seemed  different  and  we  all  three  braved  the 

46 


Spike  and  Red 


huge  spitting,  chugging  locomotives  waiting 
impatiently  on  the  tracks  (like  restless  horses 
champing  at  their  bits)  and  arriving  safely  on 
the  other  side,  we  climbed  a  steep  embankment 
and  presently  sat  down  in  an  atmosphere  of 
fried  chicken,  tobacco  smoke,  French  fried  po 
tatoes,  country  sausages  and  music  (?)  from 
a  decrepit  jazz  band.  The  habitues  were  tired 
looking  freight  handlers,  grimy  faced  trainmen 
from  the  yards,  baggage  men,  and,  well,  you 
know  the  types  that  go  to  make  up  the  night 
life  around  a  depot.  Seated  on  a  high  stool 
by  the  lunch  counter,  between  Spike  and  Red, 
the  sordidness  of  the  place  was  somewhat 
lessened,  and  I  thought  as  I  looked  about  me : 
"Well,  I  suppose  this  is  the  'white  lights,'  the 
warmth,  merriment  and  music  for  some  folk." 
I  will  always  look  back  with  pleasure  to  this 
night  for  I  made  friends  (in  Spike  and  Red) 
with  two  of  the  most  lovable  "hicks"  it  has 
ever  been  my  good  fortune  to  meet. 

Spike,  the  taller  of  the  two,  was  the  busi 
ness,  as  well  as  the  optimistic  end  of  the 
team,  while  Red,  a  little  wiry  pale  faced  sharp- 
featured  sober  chap  with  a  perpetual  grouch, 
was  the  pessimistic  partner.  Spike  always 
wore  a  happy,  smile  (he  was  reading  Science 

47 


Spike  and  Red 


and  Health )  and  his  one  ambition  was  to  quit 
the  show  business  and  devote  the  rest  of  his 
life  (so  he  said),  to  traveling  in  foreign 
countries  (he  mentioned  Honolulu  and 
Alaska)  showing  "the  light"  to  the  natives; 
while  Ked  daily  prayed  to  the  good  Lord  to 
make  him  a  champion  like  Benny  Leonard  so 
that  he  could  return  to  the  last  town  and  give 
a  good  wallop  to  the  local  manager,  who 
panned  their  act. 

Fate  seemingly  brought  the  boys  together 
for  Spike  was  a  delightful  antidote  to  the 
poison,  which  Red  imagined  some  one  had 
placed  in  his  cup  of  life.  Red  confided  in  me, 
between  mouthfuls,  that  "a  dame  who  had 
thrown  me  down"  was  the  cause  of  his  ruined 
disposition — later  (after  a  second  plate  of 
buckwheats  and  a  third  glass  of  ice-water)  he 
said  that  it  was  his  stomach. 

"It  can't  be  your  stomach,  Red,"  Spike 
gently  said  from  the  other  side  of  me,  "such 
a  thing  don't  exist  except  in  your  imagin 
ation." 

"All  right  then,"  snapped  Red,  the  big  danc 
ing  hit  of  the  team,  "the  act  don't  work  in  the 
next  burg,  because  I  have  only  got  imaginary 
legs." 

48 


Spike  and  Red 


Their  daily  "spats"  had  none  of  those  petty 
personal  bitternesses  which  are  characteristic 
of  some  vaudeville  teams  who  quarrel  and 
quit  each  other  "for  good"  three  or  four  times 
a  week — for  Spike's  gentle  and  forgiving 
nature  compelled  Red  to  forget  quickly.  Spike, 
with  a  simple  philosophy  gleaned  from  his 
daily  reading  of  the  free  literature  placed  in 
the  stage  mail  box  by  kindly  workers — was  as 
oil  upon  the  troubled  waters  of  Red's  life  in 
the  theatre — and  out  of  it.  Red  wanted  to 
start  a  scrap  right  there  in  the  lunch  room  be 
cause  he  imagined  that  a  "big  guy  was  star 
ing"  until  Spike  happily  explained  that  the 
big  guy  was  evidently  at  the  show  that  eve 
ning  and  was  an  enthusiastic  admirer  of  Red's 
dancing,  which  (Spike  deftly  added)  was  the 
big  hit  of  the  bill.  Red  was  but  half  appeased, 
for  between  spoonfuls  of  coffee  he  was  heard 
to  mutter  something  about  giving  his  admirer 
a  good  "rap  on  the  snoot"  for  his  trouble — 
after  which  the  boys  never  spoke  to  each  other 
for  an  hour,  simply  because  Spike  had  re 
marked  that  the  erring  one — the  man  who  was 
staring — was  one  of  the  Lord's  own  children 
— a  remark  which  Red  took  as  a  personal 
comparison  with  himself  and  which  he  bitterly 

49 


Spike  and  Red 


resented.  Arriving  back  at  the  dark  depot,  I 
ventured  to  remark  (hoping  to  divert  Red's 
thoughts  from  his  grievance)  that  Rembrandt, 
Rubens  and  Titian  must  have  come  to  such 
interiors  as  this  for  their  light  effects  and 
types,  to  which  Red  (still  sore  with  his  ad 
mirer  and  with  Spike)  grunted,  "I  never 
worked  on  a  bill  with  any  of  them  guys,  and 
wot's  more — I  should  worry  how  they  spent 
their  evenings. 

Spike  was  telling  me  some  of  the  ideals  of 
life  he  had  learned  since  taking  up  the  litera 
ture  of  love  he  found  in  the  mail  boxes  on  the 
stages  of  the  circuit  he  worked. 

"I  used  to  arrive  at  the  'show-shop'  with  a 
chip  on  my  shoulder,"  he  was  saying.  "I  used 
to  think — like  Red — that  everybody  was  layin' 
for  me,  and  I  would  walk  off  if  a  bum  leader 
played  a  blue  note.  If  a  guy  used  to  walk  out 
on  me  while  I  was  doin'  my  comedy  bit  or  an 
usher  walk  down  the  aisle  with  a  glass  of 
water  during  my  imitation  of  Eddie  Foy  I 
would  see  blood  and  bawl  everybody  out— 
and  now,  since  this  new  thing  has  got  me — 
well,  Say!  I  could  give  a  good  show  if  the 
whole  orchestra  was  drunk  and  playing  off 
key!  I  could ' 

50 


Spike  and  Red 


"Come  on  Rummy,"  Ked  yelled  at  Spike  as 
a  distant  rumble  heralded  the  coming  train. 
"Stop  gabbin'  and  grab  your  grip  and  make 
a  dash  for  a  couple  of  good  ones  on  the  day 
coach  before  all  these  low  bums  get  ahead  of 
us." 

The  big  depot  officer  was  roughly  shaking 
frightened  people  from  their  sleep  on  the 
benches  as  he  called  the  name  and  cities  en 
route  in  a  drawling  monotonous  voice  which 
nobody  could  understand. 

I  was  saying  good-by  to  the  boys — they 
were  going  by  an  earlier  train  than  mine — 
the  half  sleepy  crowd  was  trying  to  get  into 
one  day  coach  already  full.  Spike  was  help 
ing  a  sickly  old  lady  with  two  children,  two 
grips  and  a  parrot  cage,  while  Eed  was 
threatening  to  rap  a  guy  over  the  snoot  for 
accidentally  bumping  him  (Red),  with  a  suit 
case.  "Good-by,  Spike — Good-by,  Red,  write 
me  a  line,"  I  called  to  Red  as  he  stood  on  the 
platform  of  the  now  moving  car.  "Say,  I've 
never  wrote  anythin'  for  years  except  money 
orders  for  my  ole  mother — wot  could  I  write 
you  about,  Rabbi?"  "Write  me  about  the  peo 
ple  and  the  scenery  in  the  next  town  or" — 
the  train  was  moving  off  now  the  taillight  is 

51 


Spike  and  Red 


disappearing  around  a  curve,  it  is  no  bigger 
than  a  pen's  point,  it's  gone.  I  feel  as  if  I 
had  known  the  boys  for  years.  Gee;  how 
lonely  and  cold  in  this  dark  depot — well  I  do 
hope  I  meet  Spike  and  Red  again. 

(Jacksonville,  Fla. — Some  days  later) 

I've  been  here  three  or  four  days  and  just 
received  the  following  letter  from  Red: 

"Dear  Rabbi — you  asked  me  to  write  you  a  letter 
about  the  guys  and  the  scenery  heer — well,  the  whole 
stage  crew — a  couple  of  'em — are  all  crabs  and  the  scen 
ery  a  street  olio,  a  wood  drop  and  no  interiors — is  all 
pretty  rotten — Good  luck,  Rabbi  ole  top, 
Yours, 

RED 

"P.  S.     Don't  think  I'm  mad  with  Spike  cos'  I'm  not. 

•  God  help  me  if  we  was  to  split.    The  trouble  with  Spike 

is  that  he's  nearly  always  right.    Every  time  I  gets  new- 

monia  or  consumption  or  any  other  fatal  disease  it  turns 

out  to  be  jus'  what  Spike  says  it  is — imagination. 

"P.  S.  Again.  Spike  told  me  to  tell  you  somethin' 
about  devine  love  and  human  needs — I  don't  know  wot 
he  means — he  reads  about  it  in  that  Scientific  paper 
wot  he's  crazy  about — on  the  level,  Rab — 1  luv  Spike 
and  I  hope  to  Christ  he  never  leaves  me." 


52 


(W  THE  ROAD 


RICHMOND,  VA. 

PEOPLE,  white  and  colored,  were  hurrying 
from  every  direction.  Work  was  almost 
entirely  suspended  in  the  various  stores 
as  the  boys  and  girls  left  their  customers  to 
hang  their  heads  out  of  the  windows.  The 
sound  of  brasses  blaring  one  of  Sousa's 
marches  and  the  measured  tramp!  tramp!  of 
marching  men  grew  nearer  and  nearer,  when, 
instead  of  the  expected  khaki-clad  departing 
hosts,  there  swung  into  view  Al  Field's  Min 
strel  parade. 

Genial  old  Al  led  the  parade,  reclining  non 
chalantly  in  a  locally  hired  hack  that  had  evi 
dently  seen  better  days,  but  in  Al's  mind's 
eye  it  was  as  if  it  were  a  gilded  chariot  and 
Al  was  for  the  nonce  (also  in  his  mind's  eye) 
an  emperor,  bowing  to  the  frenzied  multitude. 

Catching  sight  of  us  standing  on  the  curb 
among  the  common  crowd,  the  emperor — I 
mean  Al — cried,  "What,  ho,  you  Friar,  wilt 
thou  ride  with  one?"  and  so  it  came  to  pass 
that  we  rode.  And,  say,  boys,  we  understand 
now  the  lure  of  the  road  for  the  old  minstrel 
man.  We  have  often  wondered,  as  we  stood 
knee  deep  in  the  snow,  waiting  for  a  train  at 
some  lonely  junction,  why  the  rich  old  min- 

53 


On  the  Road 


strel  men  still  leave  their  sumptuous  homes 
and  brave  the  dangers  of  blizzard  bound  trains, 
fireproof  (?)  hotels  and  unmentionable  tables 
d'hote.  We  understand  now. 

Ever  and  anon  Al  would  stop,  as  we  talked 
of  the  friends  in  New  York,  to  bow  gracefully 
to  an  applauding  group  of  nurse  maids,  or  to 
jovially  salute  a  bunch  of  colored  admirers, 
who  were  keeping  step  alongside  the  horses 
that  drew  the  chariot  of  their  idol. 

And  what  an  idol  Al  is  to  the  kindly  people 
of  towns  such  as  this.  His  visit  is  an  annual 
event  to  the  folk  who  have  seen  his  coming  for 
thirty  years  or  more.  As  we  pulled  close  to 
the  sidewalk  to  accommodate  a  passing  street 
car,  a  white-haired  proprietor  of  a  stationer's 
store  pushed  through  the  crowd.  "Mr.  Field," 
he  said  in  a  trembling  voice.  "Glad  to  see  you 
back.  I've  got  a  seat  for  to-night.  Wouldn't 
miss  your  show  for  worlds — me  and  my  missus. 
She's  gone  now,  saw  you  in  this  town  twenty- 
eight  years  ago.  We  were  on  our  honeymoon 
then.  God  bless  you,  Al — Mr.  Field,"  and 
there  were  tears  in  his  eyes,  too.  Old  negroes 
ran  alongside  the  chari — hack,  to  get  a  close- 
up  of  the  greatest  man  (in  their  estimation) 
who  ever  lived.  Mothers  held  their  babies  up 

54 


On  the  Road 


for  Al  to  see.  Oh,  boys,  when  the  sounds  and 
sights  of  a  minstrel  parade  fail  to  touch  you, 
then  indeed  your  youth  has  finally  packed  up 
and  gone. 

If  you  haven't  seen  the  minstrel  band  form 
a  semi-circle  in  front  of  the  big  local  hotel  for 
a  final  wind-up  concert  (prior  to  the  matinee) 
then  you  have  no  idea  of  the  perfect  bliss  of 
nine-tenths  of  the  population's  kids  and  grown 
manhood.  The  crowd  is  thickest  round  the 
slide  trombone,  who  runs  a  dead-heat  for  popu 
larity  with  the  trap  drummer — and  oh,  boy! 
see  those  rolling  eyes  and  watch  those  shuffling 
feet  as  the  band  "rags"  "The  Toreador."  And 
the  expression  on  the  faces  of  the  little  coons 
who  have  won  the  honor  of  holding  the  music 
or  supporting  the  big  drums — it  is  the  heav 
enly  expression  that  Kubens  and  Titian 
painted  into  the  faces  of  their  divine  cherubs. 
Al  invited  us  into  a  nearby  drug  store,  while 
the  round-up  proceeded.  Hundreds  of  admir 
ing  faces  were  flattened  against  the  big  win 
dows  to  watch  us  quaff  our  lemon  phosphate, 
while  the  drug  clerks  (and  clerkesses)  slyly 
approached  for  a  closer  view. 

Al  spoke  to  us  of  the  fish  pond  he  was  build 
ing  on  his  farm,  and  tried  to  appear  indifferent 

55 


On  the  Road 


to  the  silent  worship  that  was  being  showered 
upon  him,  but  he  was  slyly  glancing  over  our 
shoulder  and  was  straightening  up  with  pride 
as  the  young  and  old  residents  were  breathing 
his  name — we  understand  now  why  the  old 
minstrel  men  cling  to  the  road. 


56 


AN  HOUR  AT  THE 
TERMINAL 

THE  Railroad  Terminal  is  the  shop  win 
dow  of  emotions,  forever  having  on  dis 
play  the  latest  (as  well  as  the  oldest) 
styles  in  smiles,  tears,  gladness,  sorrow  and 
everything  else  in  the  way  of  feelings  that  are 
to  be  manifested  on  special  occasions.  Hu 
manity  at  a  great  railroad  station  is  human 
ity  off  its  guard — in  its  shirt  sleeves,  as  it 
were — for  there, .in  the  hurry  and  bustle  of 
coming  and  going,  people  do  not  trouble  to 
look  their  best,  and  they  drop,  for  a  time,  at 
least,  their  party  manners. 

Is  there  to  be  found  anywhere  else  such  a 
lack  of  repose  as  among  the  weary,  sprawling 
crowd  in  a  depot  waiting-room?  Here  even 
the  once  shy  off-on-their-honeymoon  bride 
and  bridegroom  are  recognizable  (apart  from 
the  telltale  grains  of  rice  still  clinging  to  hat- 
brim  and  skirt)  by  their  perfectly  natural 
"  oh-we-don't-have-to-hide-it-any -longer  "  b  e  - 
havior.  And  is  there  a  place  where  people 
show  their  real  selves  more  than  on  the  line 
at  the  ticket  window?  Then  there  is  that  aw 
ful  expose  of  one's  geographical  ignorance — 
the  Information  Booth — the  spot  where  a 
polite  official  informs  one,  in  a  loud  tone  of 

57 


An  Hour  at  the  Terminal 

voice,  that  Buffalo  is  in  New  York — not  in 
Michigan ! 

A  story  is  told  of  a  colored  gen'l'man  who 
innocently  proved  more  than  a  match  for  the 
aforesaid  polite  official.  "How  does  I  git  to 
Mem-fus,  Kentucky?''  asked,  in  blissful  igno 
rance  this  simple  southern  son. 

"Memphis  is  not  in  Kentucky,"  bawled  the 
information  king  in  reply.  "It's  in  Tennes 
see."  "You  doan'  say,"  answered  the  still 
blissful  one.  "When  dey  put  it  over  dar?" 

Perhaps  the  most  sacred  spot  in  the  termi 
nal  is  that  last  barricade  of  the  mask  wearer— 
the  narrow  gate  leading  to  the  trains — where 
holes  are  punched  in  tickets  and  pretense. 
Here,  a  man  who  is  generally  supposed  to  be 
cold-blooded  and  merciless  will  brush  a  tear 
from  his  eye  as  he  caresses  a  friend  and 
fondles  a  dog  in  a  last  good-by,  here — well, 
why  dwell  on  the  pathos  of  this  spot  when 
there  is  so  much  humor  under  the  same  roof? 

A  keen  business  woman,  noted  for  her  ex 
ecutive  ability,  her  level-headedness,  and  her 
public  speeches  in  some  feminine  fraternal 
order,  will  hold  up  a  whole  line  of  tired  busi 
ness  men  while  she  delivers  herself  of  this 
foolish  tirade  against  the  clerk  at  the  ticket 

58 


An  Hour  at  the  Terminal 

window:  "It  is  simply  outrageous!  I  will 
certainly  report  it  to  the  directors  of  the  road, 
and  what  is  more,  I  will  write  to  all  the 
papers  about  it — the  idea  I  I  have  to  go  with 
out  my  breakfast  because  your  old  3:30  does, 
not  connect  up  with  the  fast  train  in  the 
morning — what  am  I  to  do?  There  is  not  a 
decent  hotel  in  that  place,  and  I  must  stay 
there  overnight — do  you  call  this  a  railroad? 
What  is  the  next  train?  Oh,  dear!  that  won't 
do!  what  have  you  done  with  the  5:50  that 
ran  when  I  went  there  three  years  ago?  I 
must  get  there — 1  will  certainly  write  to  the 
pap—  Do  you  call  this  a  railroad?" 

The  men  on  the  waiting  line  are  getting 
madder  and  madder.  "Madam,  would  you 
mind  my  gettin'  to  Boston  and  back  while 
you  try  to  arrange  the  road's  time-table  to 
your  satisfaction?"  interrupted  a  gruff  man 
as  he  brushed  her  aside  and  grabbed  for  a 
ticket.  "You  are  no  gentleman,"  she  said,  as 
she  transferred  her  attention  to  the  gruff  one 
and  still  held  up  the  line.  "I  will  most  cer 
tainly  write  about  you  to  the  pap — "  "For 
the  love  of  Mike,  if  you  would  only  go  to  the 
writing-room  and  get  away  from  that  win 
dow,"  he  growled,  as  he  sped  for  the  train. 

59 


An  Hour  at  the  Terminal 

A  first  cousin  to  this  lady  is  the  pre 
cise  individual  who  politely  insists  upon  an 
explanation  (during  the  busy  hour)  as  to 
why  a  war  tax  should  be  added  to  the  fare 
when  the  war  is  over.  "Personally,  I  have  no 
objection  to  paying  my  share  of  the  world 
tragedy,"  he  says,  sweetly;  "but  I  cannot  see 
the  force  of  being  imposed  upon  now  that  the 
fighting  has  ceased.  Mind  you,  I  do  not  wish 
you  to  misunderstand  me;  I  am  not  a  mean 
man,  no,,  not  by  any  means,  for  I  hold  sev 
eral  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  Liberty  bonds 
and  I—  "You  are  holding  up  the  line,"  the 
ticket  clerk  coldly  reminds  him  as  his  self- 
recommendation  is  cut  short. 

In  spite  of  his  efforts  to  be  sociable,  nobody 
loves  a  fat  man  with  lots  of  baggage,  at  a 
depot. 

His  progress  from  the  main  entrance  to  the 
train  via  the  ticket  office  is  one  long  "Par 
don  me,"  "No!  no!  I'll  carry  it  myself." 
"Look  out!  look  out!"  "Well,  why  don't  you 
look  where  you're  going  yourself."  "Say!  do 
you  want  the  whole  depot?"  "No!  I'll  carry 
it  myself,"  only  to  surrender  his  bags,  pack 
ages,  etc.,  to  the  colored  porter  just  twenty 
feet  away  from  the  train. 

60 


An  Hour  at  the  Terminal 

When  I  arrived  at  the  depot  I  noticed  a 
dapper-looking  gentleman  waiting  by  the 
late-train  board.  An  hour  later  he  was  still 
waiting,  but  minus  his  coat  and  vest.  His 
collar  was  wilting,  and  he  looked  as  comfort 
able  as  if  he  was  sitting  on  a  hot  brick.  He 
was  evidently  waiting  for  one  of  the  trains 
which  were  marked  to  arrive  hours  late,  and 
he  was  muttering  something  about  having  to 
get  up  before  breakfast  to  meet  a  train  that 
was  to  arrive  after  supper. 

Close  by  sat  the  personification  of  patience 
— an  old  lady  whom  I  have  noticed  on  many 
occasions  about  New  York.  I  call  her  the 
"Lady  with  the  Sheitel."  The  sheitel  is  a 
peculiar-shaped  wig,  worn  by  orthodox  Jew 
ish  married  women,  which  is  supposed  to 
make  them  unattractive  to  men  other  than 
their  husbands.  I  tried  to  find  out  why  this 
old  lady  sat  for  hours  in  the  depot,  but  she 
wore  out  my  patience  and  I  left  her  still  sit 
ting  there. 

A  uniformed  attendant  pointed  out  to  me  a 
white-whiskered  old  gentleman  who  had  been 
commuting  fifty  years.  "I've  known  him  my 
self  for  over  twenty  years,"  said  the  official, 
"and  he's  never  changed  a  bit — always  got  a 

61 


An  Hour  at  the  Terminal 

good  word  and  a  smile  for  everybody — don't 
interfere  with  nobody — the  only  thing  he  no 
tices  in  particular  is  kids,  and  he  always 
feeds  the  little  ones  with  peanut  brittle  from 
his  pocket.  And,  judgin'  by  the  way  he  hands 
it  out,  he  must  run  a  candy  factory.  He  don't 
seem  to  have  a  care  in  the  world.  They  don't 
raise  them  like  him  any  more,  sir!" 

I  was  not  listening  to  him  any  more,  for  I 
caught  sight  of  a  typical  American  girl  lean 
ing  on  the  arm  of — well,  he  looked  like  her 
father.  I  heard  her  say  "He's  gone,"  as  the 
old  gentleman  lifted  his  hat  to  somebody  in 
the  distance.  I  was  wondering  who  it  was 
that  brought  the  tears  to  her  eyes — maybe 
her  sweetheart,  or  perhaps  her  brother.  I 
was  awakened  from  my  pleasant  reverie  by 
the  attendant,  who  still  pursued  me,  now  ex 
tolling  the  simplicity  of  the  red  Indians. 
"Gee!'"  he  was  saying:  "them  Indian  guys 
had  it  all  over  us  New  Yorkers — no  rent — no 
coal  bills — no  insurance,  taxes,  grocers'  bills 
—no."  I  am  glad  he  was  interrupted  by  the 
arrival  of  a  train  which  called  him  to  his  duty 
of  keeping  the  crowd  back  from  the  gate. 

"It's  coming!  It's  coming!"  excited  groups 
were  joyfully  saying  as  the  big  bell  of  the  on- 

62 


An  Hour  at  the  Terminal 

coming-  locomotive  sounded  closer  and  closer 
and  then  all  those  familiar  scenes  of  returning 
loved  ones !  As  I  stood  there — alone — the  good 
old  lines  of  Jakes  again  came  to  my  mind : 

"'Ome  ain't  the  four  walls,  the  ceiling  and  the  furni 
ture.     'Ome's  the  place  where  those  as  love  us  is." 


VAUDEVILLE  CAMEOS 


ONCE  upon  a  time  not  so  very  long  ago, 
before  local  managers  were  taught  to 
"clean  up"  and  be  kind  and  consider 
ate  to  the  folk  back  stage,  the  vaudeville  game 
was  not  the  easiest  kind  of  life  for  a  refined 
girl.  In  those  days  many  brave  and  talented 
women  fought  a  great  fight  against  the 
wretched  conditions  on  the  road.  One  of  the 
sweetest  and  bravest  of  them  all  was  Allyn. 

Allyn  was  the  feminine  half,  of  course,  of 
one  of  the  daintiest  acts  in  big-time  vaudeville ; 
her  clothes,  her  charm  of  manner,  and,  above 
all,  her  native  refinement  winning  for  her  the 
respect  of  everybody — that  is,  everybody  but 
her  partner  in  the  act. 

He  was  a  suave  fellow  with  a  disposition 
mean  enough  to  break  the  morale  of  any 
woman  alive  but  Allyn's,  and  the  harder  he 
tried  to  bring  her  down  to  his  level  the  more 
he  failed.  Of  course,  he  broke  her  heart,  but 
her  heart  was  not  a  source  of  revenue  to  the 
act,  so  it  did  not  matter. 

As  I  said  before,  the  business  in  those  days 
was  no  cinch  for  a  girl  of  gentle  soul  like 
Allyn.  For  after  the  nerve-breaking  rail 
road  jumps  there  came  the  sordid  hotels  or 

65 


Vaudeville  Cameos 

boarding  houses  and  the  dimly  lit,  unsanitary 
dressing  rooms,  in  which  she  had  to  spend 
most  of  her  waking  hours.  The  weary  days 
at  the  theatre  meant  nothing  to  her  but  un 
wholesome  scandal,  bitter  jealousies,  as  well 
as  foul  accusations  and  equally  foul  sus 
picions  created  by  an  unworthy  teammate, 
all  of  which  Allyn  passed  through  undeflled. 

"Poor  Allyn,"  her  fellow  performers  would 
whisper  pityingly  as  they  stood  in  the  wings 
and  watched  the  mean  little  things  he  did  to 
her  during  their  act.  And  then  the  rotten  in 
sults  he  would  hurl  at  her  when  they  came 
off — right  before  all  the  stage  crew,  too- 
made  everybody's  blood  boil,  but  in  spite  of  it 
all  she  never  lost  her  "class." 

No  matter  how  rough  the  gang  on  the  week's 
bill  they  seemed  to  curb  their  "language"  in 
her  presence.  "Nix,"  the  word  went  along  as 
she  approached.  "Nix  on  the  blue  stuff,  here 
comes  Allyn,"  and  everybody  was  hushed  but 
her  partner.  Her  sweet  nature  was  absolutely 
proof  against  his  foul  slanders  of  her  friends 
—"dirt"  could  not  enter  her  mind.  It  was 
useless  to  carry  "stories"  to  Allyn.  She  chose 
her  friends,  and  stuck  to  them,  in  spite  of  all 
she  suffered  in  consequence.  Then,  she  mar- 

66 


Vaudeville  Cameos 

ried  him ;  nobody  could  ever  understand  why. 
and  her  life  was,  if  possible,  a  greater  hell 
than  before.  There  followed  the  period  when 
she  was  forbidden  to  speak  to  anybody,  and 
she  spent  the  greater  part  of  her  time  shed 
ding  bitter  tears  behind  the  closed  door  of  her 
dressing  room.  His  cruel  torture  of  her  mind 
and  body  destroyed  almost  everything  in  her 
but  her  beautiful  soul. 

Of  course,  they  parted — she  retiring  to  pri 
vate  life,  taking  with  her  the  loving  regards 
of  many  friends,  while  he  went  on  his  un 
happy  way  with  a  new  girl,  who,  to  quote  re 
ports,  is  handing  the  mean  little  guy  all  he 
deserves  for  the  hell  he  gave  Allyn. 

Girl  number  two,  so  they  say,  absolutely 
refuses  to  be  cursed  at,  slandered,  pinched, 
tortured  or  nagged  in  the  usual  way  which  is 
popularly  supposed  to  be  the  lot  of  the  femi 
nine  half  of  a  "two"  act.  She  is  said  to  have 
a  wallop  like  Jack  Dempsey's  and  has  trained 
her  male  partner  to  stand  meekly  in  the  wings 
holding  a  glass  of  wTater  which  she  has  to  sip 
after  her  big  number. 

Allyn  is  married  again — and  if  the  prayers 
of  her  friends  mean  anything — she  will  be 
very  happy.  I  saw  her  on  Broadway  today. 

67 


Vaudeville  Cameos 

She  looked  just  the  lady  she  always  has  been, 
and  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  stop 
and  talk  to  her  of  old  times.  "Do  you  remem 
ber  the  day  I  first  met  you?  It  was  in  Wash 
ington,  just  twelve  years  ago.  I  had  to  fol 
low  your  act  on  the  bill  at  Chase's,  and  I  stood 
watching  you  from  the  wings.  He  pinched 
and  cursed  you  as  you  sang  and  danced  with 
him,  and  I  could  see  you  holding  back  your 
tears  with  a  'prop'  smile,  and  then  when  you 
came  off  he — oh,  well  I  just  hate  to  think  that 
scene  over  again.  I  just  felt  for  you — then 
and  many  times  since.  Through  all  the  sad 
years  you  have  kept  your  poise,  your  good 
name,  your  'class,'  and  you  have  been,  and 
always  will  be,  an  inspiration  to  me — 

There  is  nothing  to  this  story  but  the  simple 
little  moral  that  no  matter  how  hard  some 
people  try  they  cannot  make  a  sow's  ear  out 
of  a  silk  purse. 


II 

IT  was  on  the  stage  of  the  Ronacher  Theatre 
in  Vienna  that  I  first  met  her.     She  was 
such  a  dainty  little  thing  then,  as  dainty  as — 
well,  it  is  the  usual  thing  to  say,  as  dainty  as 
a  piece  of  Dresden  china.     I  used  to  come 

68 


Vaudeville  Cameos 

down  into  the  wings  from  my  dressing  room 
long  before  my  time  to  go  on  just  to  be  with 
her  and  to  enjoy  her  quaint  little  ways.  How 
she  laughed  as  I  tried  to  imitate  her  charming 
Viennese  accent,  but  I  had  my  revenge  when 
she  tried  to  speak  what  she  called  "Ameri- 
canische."  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  ashamed 
to  say  that  I  fell  in  love  with  her — but  I'm 
not — not  ashamed,  I  mean.  At  that  time  I 
did  not  know  what  a  darn  fool  I  must  have 
looked  as  I  stood  in  the  wings  lovingly  cling 
ing  to  her  wrap  while  she  was  doing  her  act. 

Under  the  spotlight  she  looked  a  dream. 
Light  as  a  feather  stirred  by  a  summer  breeze, 
she  gracefully  danced  to  the  exquisite  rhythm 
of  a  Strauss  waltz.  As  the  days  and  weeks 
passed  it  became  my  one  ambition  in  life  to 
arrive  at  the  theatre  in  time  to  hold  that  wrap 
of  hers,  and  how  proud  I  was  of  the  privilege. 

Then  came  a  time  when  she  began  to  care 
for  me,  a  little.  I  found  this  out  when  I  saw 
tears  in  her  eyes  because  I  missed  her  cue — 
which  was  my  cue  to  be  on  hand  to  take  her 
dressing  gown  (just  like  a  lackey)  from  her 
beautiful  shoulders.  Then,  as  we  became 
more  able  to  converse  in  each  other's  language 
I  discovered  that  she  had  a  wonderfully  artis- 

69 


Vaudeville  Cameos 

tic  nature.  Since  childhood,  it  seems,  she  had 
posed  for  some  of  the  greatest  artists  of  her 
country  and  she  was  a  fund  of  reminiscence 
of  all  the  men  whose  studios  she  had  fre 
quented.  I  remember  that  on  one  occasion 
she  wras  telling  me  about  Reznicheke,  Ger 
many's  most  popular  illustrator  in  those  days. 
"Wait,"  she  said  suddenly,  "I  bring  you  some 
thing/'  She  ran  to  her  dressing  room  and 
quickly  returned  with  a  book  of  studies  that 
the  famous  Reznicheke  had  made  of  her  figure. 
Page  after  page  of  the  book  was  filled  with  the 
most  charming  studies  imaginable.  Here,  most 
painstaking  drawings  of  detail  of  a  leg,  there 
wonderfully  handled  bits  of  fore-shortened 
arms,  and  again  bust,  neck,  hands  and  shoul 
der,  all  done  as  a  labor  of  love  by  a  master 
draughtsman. 

I  tried  so  hard  to  persuade  the  girl  to  give 
me  that  book.  She  promised — but — well  our 
ways  parted  before  the  promise  was  kept. 
For  some  months  afterward  we  exchanged 
postcards.  From  Munich,  Dresden,  Berlin, 
Hamburg,  Magdeburg,  Prague  and  Paris  I 
heard  from  her,  and  of  course  replied.  Then 
she  disappeared  from  my  heart  and  mind. 

70 


Vaudeville  Cameos 

Now!  Just  a  moment  while  I  change  the 
scene. 

It  is  early  morning — one  of  those  cold  and 
damp  early  mornings  at  the  depot  at  Provi 
dence,  R.  I.  Among  the  grouchy  crowd  that 
has  just  alighted  from  the  sleeper  is  a  vaude 
ville  team — a  man,  his  wife  and  their  daugh 
ter,  who,,  I  learn  later  in  the  baggage  room, 
are  bound  for  Woonsocket,  Pawtucket  or 
some  other  split-week  town.  The  wife  does 
all  the  talking.  First  of  all  in  her  choicest 
"Ampricanisclie"  she  tells  me  that  their  agent 
is  "a  big  stiff'  for  jumping  them  "to  this  rot 
ten  burg."  Then,  running  true  to  form,  she 
bawled  out  the  baggage-man  on  account  of  a 
missing  trunk;  while  with  what  breath  she 
had  left  to  spare  she  regaled  me  with  "dirt" 
about  the  people  who  played  in  the  last  town 
with  her. 

It  wasn't  until  she  told  me  how  much  bet 
ter  baggage  is  handled  in  Vienna  that  I  found 
out  she  was  my  long-lost  affinity.  She  had 
married  a  German  acrobat  and  now  she  and 
her  daughter  are  part  of  his  act.  She  does 
all  the  booking  and  the  packing,  as  well  as  all 
the  talking.  The  once  dainty  lines  of  her  fig 
ure  so  beloved  by  Eeznicheke  are  obliterated 

71 


Vaudeville  Cameos 

by  fat,  while  her  coarseness  of  speech  has 
wiped  out  her  once  charming  accent. 

I  asked  her  if  she  remembered  the  old  days 
at  the  Ronacher  in  Vienna  and  I  felt  all 
broken  up  when  she  answered:  "Say,  kid, 
there  ain't  nothin'  to  it — this  is  the  country 
for  the  mazuma  all  right,  all  right." 

But  wait  a  minute;  I  forgot  to  mention  the 
daughter.  She  was  just  as  sweet  as  her  mother 
used  to  be,  and  I — oh !  well,  I  wish  I  was 
going  to  Woonsocket  to  hold  her  wrap. 


Ill 

LET  us  slightly  disguise  this  story  so  as  not 
to  hurt  anybody's  feelings.  Just  a  few 
short  years  ago  they,  a  young  husband  and 
wife,  struggled  over  the  small  American 
vaudeville  circuits.  He  was  not  excess  baggage 
then,  for  it  was  his  duty  to  stand  at  the  back  of 
the  stalls  to  work  up  a  reception  and  the  ap 
plause  for  his  wife.  In  those  days  his  applause 
was  about  all  she  ever  received.  Well,  things 
went  from  bad  to  worse  till  the  time  came 
when  they  were  glad  to  lay  off  six  weeks  in  or 
der  to  play  even  two — still,  they  were  happy  in 
each  other's  love.  When  they  were  stranded  in 

72 


Vaudeville  Cameos 

some  way -back  Western  town  awaiting  a  wire 
from  their  agent,  he  would  warm  the  coffee 
over  the  gas-jet  in  their  poor  little  back  room, 
clean  her  boots,  read  the  papers  to  her,  and 
bring  the  smiles  to  her  wan  face  with  his  boy 
ish  pranks. 

Now  she  is  a  London  idol,  and — well  I  met 
her  in  Kegent  street  the  other  day,  and  she 
simply  raved  for  half  an  hour  about  the  lovely 
people  who  are  entertaining  her  at  their  glori 
ous  country  homes.  "Look  at  this  lovely 
bangle,  this  bag,  this  brooch,  and  this  little 
diamond  pin.  I  am  just  showered  with  these 
little  things;  isn't  it  grand?  I  just  adore 
dear,  lovely  England.  Oh,  the  motor  parties, 
the  teas,  the  grand  times  on  the  river,  and  I 
meet  the  loveliest  boys.  I'm  learning  golf, 
tennis,  polo,  and  there  is  never  a  night  that 
some  nice  boy  doesn't  call  with  a  limousine  to 
drive  me  home,  and — "How  is  Jim?"  I  asked. 
Then  a  peculiar  look  came  into  her  eyes. 
"Jim?"  she  said.  "Jim — oh,  you  see — Jim 
and  I  are  on  the  'outs.'  He  doesn't  under 
stand  me;  besides,  I  can't  take  him  with  me 
when  I  am  invited  out  to  all  these  lovely 
homes — now  can  I?  Jim  is  so  slovenly,  and 
doesn't  really  know  how  to  behave  in  such 

73 


Vaudeville  Cameos 

company.  I  really  think  I  made  a  great  mils- 
take  in  ever  getting  married;  I—  I  left  her 
after  she  had  hailed  a  passing  taxi,  and  I 
could  not  help  wondering  if  she  realized  that 
she  was  just  a  passing  fancy  of  the  idle  rich. 
At  present,  in  the  freshness  of  her  youth,  she 
is  strutting  her  brief  hour  in  public  favor; 
but  beauty  and  charm  such  as  hers  fade 
quickly ;  and  when  she  is  no  longer  in  demand 
to  liven  up  (free  of  charge)  dull  week-ends, 
she  will  be  glad  to  sob  on  the  shoulder  of  poor, 
faithful  Jim,  who  is  waiting  on  the  door-mat. 
It  will  not  be  long  before  she  will  realize  that 
beautifully  creased  trousers,  perfect  after 
noon  tea  manners  and  a  knowledge  of  polo 
will  never  atone  for  the  lack  of  honest  affec 
tion.  At  present  she  is  the  latest  freak  at  the 
country  homes  of  the  bored  rich,  and  is  likely 
to  be  supplanted,  without  due  notice,  by  a 
marvelous  chimpanzee,  an  Indian  prince,  a 
thought-reader,  or,  perhaps,  the  latest  semi- 
nude  dancer.  Yes!  at  present  she  is  among 
the  peerage,  but  not  of  them,  and  sometime  or 
other  she  will  catch  the  frigid  intonation  of 
some  dowager  duchess  when  she  (the  duchess) 
adjusts  her  lorgnette  and  sneeringly  refers  to 
"that  actress  person";  then  she  (the  actress) 

74 


Vaudeville  Cameos 

will  awake  with  a  dull  thud.  Pull  up,  dear, 
while  there  is  yet  time.  Your  rich  admirers 
will  find  another  freak  when  the  next  show 
opens.  Jim  did  all  the  dirty  work  when 
you  were  unknown  and  struggling  for  a  career, 
and  he  should  be  good  enough  for  you  now. 


75 


AT  A  VAUDEVILLE 
REHEARSAL 

IT  was  a  bitterly  cold  early  morning  at  the 
depot  in — well,  let  us  say  Duluth,  Minn. 
The  incoming  "bill"  described  on  the  three- 
sheets  which  plaster  the  town  as  "The  Apos 
tles  of  Joy,"  were  standing,  a  pathetic  group, 
shivering  on  the  dimly-lit  icebound  platform. 

"Can  you  beat  this !"  grumbled  the  comedian 
of  the  troupe,  whose  billing  described  him  as 
the  Ray  of  Sunshine.  "An  all-night  jump  in 
a  day  coach  with  no  diner,  and  when  we  gets 
here,  instead  of  the  Mayor  to  welcome  us, 
what  do  we  find?  Blizzard  raging,  some  lodge 
holding  a  convention,  hotels  and  boarding 
houses  all  full  and  no  taxis.  And  to  think  that 
my  father  brought  me  up  to  be  a  rabbi — if  he 
knew  that  I  was  a  trouper!  Oh,  boy,  this  is 
the  life— not." 

"Some  miserable  wet  burg,"  haughtily  com 
plained  the  Arctic  Mermaid,  whose  specialty 
was  staying  under  water  for  four  minutes  in 
a  huge  glass  tank — while  Ked,  the  pessimistic 
half  of  the  team  of  Spike  and  Red,  the  Danc 
ing  Wonders,  voiced  his  vivid  if  uncomplimen 
tary  opinion  of  the  town  and  all  its  inhabi 
tants. 

"Fancy  me  wading  for  ten  blocks  through 

77 


At  a  Vaudeville  Rehearsal 

all  this  SDOW  to  get  to  that  dump  of  a  theatre,*' 
he  raved — only  to  be  interrupted  by  the  gentle 
Spike,  his  optimistic  partner,  with:  "Isn't 
the  fresh  air  and  the  lovely  snow  a  blessing 
after  that  stuffy  day  coach?"  The  words  of 
Spike  broke  up  the  indignation  meeting  at  the 
depot  and  pretty  soon  the  "bill"  was  struggling 
cheerfully  up  the  main  street  en  route  to  the 
theatre. 

The  town  was  yet  asleep,  the  only  local  peo 
ple  astir  this  bleak  morning  being  the  workers 
of  the  night  shifts  hurrying  home  to  sleep,  and 
pityingly  "joshing"  the  weary  group  of  play 
ers  as  they  passed. 

"Dem  guys  is  lucky,"  muttered  Red  fiercely, 
as  he  jerked  his  head  in  the  direction  of  the 
soot-covered  but  smiling  workers.  "Dey'll 
come  down  to  the  show  dis  afternoon  after 
dey  have  slept  ten  hours,  for  us  to  make  'em 
laugh." 

"We  should  count  it  as  a  blessing,"  mur 
mured  the  gentle  Spike,  "that  we  can  bring 
a  little  joy  into  their  sordid  lives." 

"Oh,  you  make  us  tired !"  chorused  the  hun 
gry  and  disgruntled  troupe. 

After  the  theatre  watchman  was  aroused  and 
grips  deposited,  the  troupe  separated  to  locate 
dining  places  and  rooms  before  rehearsal. 

78 


At  a  Vaudeville  Rehearsal 

Have  you  ever  seen  a  vaudeville  rehearsal? 
Try  to  imagine  yourself  after  a  tiresome  all- 
night  journey  standing  before  the  unlit  "foot 
lights"  facing  a  cold,  darkened  and  empty  au 
ditorium  with  the  seats  swathed  in  huge  dust 
cloths.  Conductor  and  orchestra  men  are  tired 
and  peevish  from  the  previous  week's  fourteen 
shows  which  ended  at  11  on  the  night  before. 
The  blase  stage  crew  has  listened  to  the  popu 
lar  songs  and  the  latest  "gags"  sprung  twice 
a  day  seven  days  a  week  for  the  last  fifteen  or 
twenty  years. 

The  house  cleaners  start  to  sweep  the  audi 
torium,  the  baggage  man  to  pitch  the  trunks 
through  the  stage  door  (letting  a  bitterly  cold 
blast  through  as  well)  and  the  orchestra  re 
luctantly  starts  to  tune  up  at  about  the- same 
time.  It  is  too  early  in  the  morning  for  art  or 
sentiment  and  everybody  is  walking  around 
with  a  "chip"  flagrantly  exposed. 

Spike  and  Bed,  the  dancing  wonders,  pro 
ceed  to  go  over  their  impromptu  (?)  "gags" 
with  the  leader.  A  carpenter  three  feet  away 
starts  to  hammer  vigorously. 

"Somebody  don't  like  our  act  in  this  burg," 
sputters  the  interrupted  Bed,  "they're  knock 
ing  already." 

79 


At  a  Vaudeville  Rehearsal 

"Oh,  Bed !"  breaks  in  Spike  soothingly,  "it's 
essential;"  while  the  orchestra  leader  with  a 
yawn  reminds  the  boys  that  they  need  not  re 
hearse  their  extemporaneous  comedy,  at  the 
same  time  sarcastically  adding:  "We  know 
it  well;  it  has  been  done  here  scores  of  times." 

"I'll  tell  you  what  to  do,  boys,"  suggests  the 
disgruntled  carpenter  whose  hammering  has 
been  held  up,  "Sing  'em  something  new — 'Sil 
ver  Threads  Among  the  Gold,'  f  instance." 

Spike  and  Red  make  way  for  a  young  lady 
who  has  so  often  been  described  (by  the  press 
agent)  as  a  silver- throated  thrush  that  she  be 
lieves  it  herself.  She  runs  over — sotto  voce — 
an  aria  which,  much  to  the  relief  of  the  orches 
tra  boys,  is  drowned  somewhat  by  clanking 
radiators  which  are  just  beginning  to  warm 
up,  dropping  stage  braces,  the  squeaking  of 
fly  ropes  being  hauled  up  and  down  and  a  host 
of  other  rehearsal  noises  the  climax  of  which 
brings  the  only  smile  of  the  morning  upon  the 
leader's  face  when  a  huge  door  falls  with  a 
crash  upon  the  stage,  obliterating  the  thrush's 
top  note.  Of  course  the  poor  girl  begins  to 
cry,  and  then  one  sees  the  tragedy  of  it  all. 

In  the  afternoon  during  the  regular  show 
the  well-fed,  well-rested  audience  will,  with 

80 


At  a  Vaudeville  Rehearsal 

their  arms  folded  and  a  show-me  look  on  their 
faces,  sit  back  (on  comfortable  plush-covered 
chairs)  in  judgment  upon  the  tired  performer 
who,  in  spite  of  her  lack  of  rest  and  food  will 
smile  through  the  make-up  which  partly  hides 
her  wan  features. 

But  here  comes  the  comedian — the  Bay  of 
Sunshine — to  run  through  his  songs  and  ad 
lib.  (?)  chatter.  Years  of  hard  knocks  have 
hardened  him  to  antagonism — the  dull  drab 
of  rehearsals  mornings  affects  him  not. 

"Mornin',  boys,"  he  will  say  cheerfully  to 
the  orchestra  men  and  then,  by  way  of  being 
friendly,  he  will  put  his  foot  in  it  by  asking: 
"How  do  you  boys  like  America?"  As  most 
of  the  musicians  are  foreigners  it  is  easy  to 
understand  that  the  comedian  earns  his  morn 
ing  hate  right  away. 

If  there  is  anything  calculated  to  dampen 
the  ardor  of  an  aspiring  vaudevillian  it  is  the 
sight  of  a  comedian  minus  his  "props"  and 
"pep"  running  through  his  songs  and  chatter 
to  an  empty  house  at  rehearsal.  "I'll  ampu 
tate  his  reve-le,"  he  will  sing,  "and  step  upon 
it  hev-i-lee — hold  that  note,  leader — hold  it! — 
there  will  be  a  big  laugh  there  and — " 

"No,  there  won't  be — that  song  has  been 

81 


At  a  Vaudeville  Rehearsal 

worn  out  in  this  town — and  by  'good'  singers, 
too,"  the  leader  breaks  in — and  then  ensues  an 
argument  which  is  lost  to  the  listeners  in  the 
noise  of  the  steam  being  turned  into  the  tank 
to  heat  the  water  for  the  Arctic  Mermaid. 

Later  on,  in  the  regular  show,  the  audience 
will  gaze  enraptured  at  the  subtle  and  capti 
vating  figure  of  the  Queen  of  the  High  Wire 
as  she  dances,  in  the  full  glare  of  the  spot 
light,  on  the  thin  silver  strand.  In  every  city 
en  route  she  has  been  the  dream  heroine  of 
thousands  of  honest  clerks  and  salesmen.  Just 
at  present  she  is  (in  kimono  and  slippers)  fix 
ing  her  nickle-plated  apparatus,  assisted  by  a 
husband  who  is  invisible  to  the  regular  audi 
ence,  and  she  is  accompanied  by  two  obstrep 
erous  children  who  are  never  mentioned  on  the 
program.  The  maternal  instinct  is  evidenced 
by  the  way  Patricia  Poppinjay,  the  haughty 
leading  woman  of  the  dramatic  sketch  on  the 
bill,  will  step  down  from  her  pedestal  to  fondle 
these  youngsters.  Patricia  (via  the  press 
agent)  in  the  illustrated  magazines  is  always 
depicted  as  a  cold,  stern  beauty,  clad  in  furs. 
Her  printed  interviews  will  express  her  great 
est  passion  in  life  as  Balzac,  but  way  down  in 
her  heart,  and  as  viewed  at  rehearsal,  she  is 

82 


At  a  Vaudeville  Rehearsal 

just  a  human  being  with  a  fondness  for  chil 
dren  and  stuffed  peppers. 

Patricia  is  a  tyrant  when  it  comes  to  the 
details  of  the  stage  settings  for  her  sketch, 
and  she  will  keep  the  stage  manager  and  prop 
erty  man  on  tenterhooks  for  hours,  but  after 
she  has  gone  through  the  first  rehearsal  she  is 
the  gentlest  creature,  for  she  will  send  "Props" 
out  for  some  stuffed  peppers,  and  with  a  child 
on  each  knee  she  will  tell  them  stories  and 
share  her  daintiest  morsels  with  them. 

But,  hush,  here  is  the  "legit,"  who  is,  as  he 
contemptuously  put  it  himself,  "slumming"  in 
vaudeville  for  a  season.  "Silence  and  atmos 
phere"  are  what  he  is  always  demanding  and 
cannot  get,  especially  at  rehearsal.  As  an  ap 
plause  getter  he  is  a  "frost"  with  his  "Moments 
from  Shakespeare"  as  compared  with  Biff  & 
Bomm,  the  colored  team,  who  pull  down  six 
bows  and  a  curtain  speech  with  their  big  fin 
ish,  "Oh,  Take  Me  Back  to  Dixie." 

"Hokum"  is  the  contemptuous  sneer  that  the 
"legit"  will  hurl  at  the  offering  of  Biff  & 
Bomm,  while  "high-brow  stuff  that  gets  the 
bird"  is  Biff  &  Bomm's  description  of  the  clas 
sic  offering  of  the  "legit." 

The  local  types  who  help  to  make  up  the  re- 

83 


At  a  Vaudeville  Rehearsal 

hearsal  crowd  are  the  tailor,  who  is  on  hand  to 
press  the  clothes  of  the  artists  as  they  are 
taken  from  their  trunks;  the  railroad  agents, 
who  solicit  the  various  acts  to  leave  over  their 
roads  for  the  next  stand;  local  cleaners  and 
dyers  and  sometimes  runners  for  boarding 
houses  or  kosher  restaurants. 

Of  course  it  must  not  be  deduced  from  the 
foregoing  that  vaudeville  and  its  lovable  peo 
ple  are  entirely  without  joy — for  what  joy 
there  is  happens  after  the  anxiety  of  the  re 
hearsal  and  first  show  is  over,  when  the  per 
formers  become  their  better  selves  again. 
After  the  show,  over  a  bite  in  some  restaurant 
the  petty  bitternesses  of  the  morning's  rehear 
sal"  are  quickly  forgotten  and  the  actors  talk 
"shop"  to  their  hearts'  content. 

Fellow  performers  are  reunited  on  this 
week's  bill  who  met  each  other  last  in  other 
American  cities,  or  perhaps  in  some  foreign 
land,  and  they  swap  stories  and  reminiscences 
till  far  into  the  night  or  early  morning  for 
there  is  no  rehearsal  next  day. 

Stage-struck  boys  and  girls  who  long  to 
leave  their  cozy  homes  and  change  their  placid 
lives  to  go  upon  the  stage  would  hesitate  could 
they  on  Monday  mornings  look  in  at  a  rehear 
sal  anywhere  in  the  United  States. 

84 


THEATRE  PESTS 

PESTS,  like  the  measles  and  the  poor,  are 
always  with  us  and  are,  like  the  fleas  on 
a  dog,  necessary  evils. 

"The  fleas  on  a  dog,  so  David  Harum  says, 
"remind  him  that  he's  only  a  dog,"  the  human 
pests  of  everyday  life  continually  remind  us 
how  many  nice  people  (other  than  the  afore 
said  pests)  there  are  in  this  old  world  of  ours. 

If  ever  you  are  looking  for  trouble  in  the 
pest  line  I  would  heartily  recommend  that  you 
keep  your  eyes  open  at  the  theatre,  but  for 
Heaven's  sake  be  very  careful  of  your  eyes, 
for  Pest  No.  1 — the  lady  with  the  murderous 
hatpins — is  very  likely  to  close  them  for  you. 

Of  course,  you've  met  her — the  lady  com 
pared  with  whom  the  fretful  porcupine  has  no 
points  at  all.  A  more  thoughtless  person  does 
not  exist  than  the  lady  with  the  "Gainsboro' ' 
decorated  with  several  bristling  bayonets  that 
seem  mockingly  to  invite  one  to  be  impaled 
thereon. 

Perchance  you  first  meet  the  aforesaid  death 
trap  at  the  box  office  window,  where  (fortu 
nately  for  you)  she  is  two  or  three  ahead  of 
you  on  the  line.  Later  on  (unfortunately  for 
you)  you  are  jammed  against  her  in  the  crush 

85 


Theatre  Pests 


at  the  door.  Then  you  curse  deep  and  low.  Is 
there  anything  more  unreasonable  in  this 
world  than  the  look  given  you  by  this  pest 
should  you  by  chance  suggest  that  the  treacher 
ous  looking  array  of  barbed  points  in  her  hat 
are  likely  to  endanger  your  eyesight.  The  idea 
that  you  require  your  eyes  is  absurd  and  the 
withering  look  of  scorn  aimed  at  you  means  in 
pest  parlance,  "D — n  your  eyes." 

What  are  your  two  most  necessary  orbits 
compared  to  a  momentous  fact  that  she  must 
have  her  hat  on  straight?  What  is  your  liv 
ing  and  the  living  of  your  wife  and  family  and 
perhaps  the  living  of  your  wife's  mother  com 
pared  to  her  wish  that  her  friends  should  no 
tice  the  mammoth  piece  of  headgear,  held  in 
place  by  the  vile  sight  destroyers.  Nothing— 
simply  nothing. 

A  woman  of  the  No.  1  pest  variety  will  in 
flict  pain  upon  herself,  yes — she  will  tight-lace 
to  the  point  of  suffocation ;  she  will  go  without 
food  to  induce  paleness — but  will  she  go  with 
out  her  hatpins?  Never!  Of  course  she  takes 
the  pins  out  when  she  arrives  at  her  seat,  but 
the  only  change  to  the  danger  to  your  anatomy 
is  one  of  location.  She  sticks  them  through 
the  backs  of  the  seats  into  your  shoulders  in- 

86 


Theatre  Pests 


stead  of  trying  to  probe  the  secrets  of  your 
eyes. 

In  taking  off  her  hat  the  minutes  seem  hours, 
for  she  blocks  out — in  gigantic  silhouette — 
half  of  the  opening  chorus  and  the  grand  en 
trance  of  the  principal  tenor.  Later  on  she 
obliterates  the  best  part  of  the  finale  in  put 
ting  the  monstrosity  on  again. 

Like  Gilbert's  Lord  High  Executioner  in 
"The  Mikado/'  "I've  got  her  (Pest  No.  1)  on 
the  list.  She  never  would  be  missed — no,  she 
never  would  be  missed." 

Second  place  "on  the  list"  must  be  awarded 
to  late-comers.  If  ever  mankind  who  attends 
theatres  was  afflicted  with  a  curse  that  curse 
is  the  man  or  woman  or  both  who  come  in 
late  and  stand  arguing  with  the  usher  while 
the  plot  is  being  explained  by  the  actors. 

When  a  fat  man  and  woman  come  between 
you  and  the  plot  don't  you  get  mad?  When 
the  fat  man  and  woman,  to  make  matters 
worse,  arrive  in  hats  and  fur  coats  and  don't 
remove  them  till  they  stand  at  their  seats, 
don't  you  boil  with  indignation?  I  should 
think  so.  The  dainty  soubrette  is  instantly 
wiped  out  from  your  gladdened  sight  by  a  huge 

87 


Theatre  Pests 


profile  of  a  man  in  a  silk  hat  who  is  struggling 
to  pull  off  his  ponderous  fur  coat.  It's  mad 
dening!  Late-comers!  Bah !  they  also  "never 
would  be  missed"  if  they  never  came  at  all. 

The  deadhead  pest  who  roasts  the  show— 
I've  got  her  on  the  list — qualifies  for  third 
place.  Of  course — yes — you've  heard  her. 
She's  (if  it's  a  she)  probably  the  landlady  of 
one  of  the  actors — and  my!  how  she  does  talk! 
She  sits  just  at  the  back  of  you,  close  to  your 
ear,  and  her  rasping  voice  (such  a  cruel  voice, 
too)  nags  throughout  the  whole  show,  with 
spiteful  little  things  about  the  actor,  who  ten 
chances  to  one  has  belittled  himself  to  ask  for 
passes  for  her.  The  landlady  has  brought  "her 
friend"  and  she  tells  with  gruesome  details  (in 
a  loud  voice  for  the  benefit  of  the  rest  of  the 
audience)  the  life  story  of  the  leading  man 
who  "looks  so  swell — on  the  stage." 

One  of  the  worst  offenders  is  the  lady  who 
eats  candy  which  is  folded  in  "crackly"  paper. 
The  candy  is  all  right,  but  the  paper  is  the  big 
noise.  Just  as  the  heroine  is  delivering  her 
most  pathetic  speech  she  is  assisted  by  the 
candy  fiend,  who  dislodges  another  caramel 
from  the  sticky  paper,  and  the  sounds  caused 
thereby  are  a  correct  imitation  of  a  gatling 

88 


Theatre  Pests 


gun.  Yes !  Yes !  We  will  ask  Ko-Ko  to  make 
a  memo  of  her. 

"A  fitting  mate  for  the  above-mentioned  pest 
is  the  lady  or  gentleman  who  beats  a  tattoo 
with  her  or  his  feet  upon  your  seat  frame. 
Sometimes,  to  vary  the  monotony,  they  will 
wipe  their  feet  on  your  skirt  or  trousers. 
Should  you  venture  to  look  around  as  a  polite 
form  of  protest,  he  or  she  will  look  offended 
and  observe  to  neighbors,  "The  idea!" 

None  the  less  boresome  is  the  man  who  has 
seen  the  show  before  and  has  brought  a  brother 
or  sister  or  some  friend  to  whom  he  will  ex 
plain  all  the  jokes  and  anticipate  the  others. 
"Look!"  he  will  say  in  trumpet  whispers, 
"she's  going  to  kiss  him  now.  Ridiculous,  isn't 
it?  Now  she'll  go  out  by  that  back  door  after 
she  stands  at  the  window.  Now  she's  gone,  but 
she'll  come  back.  Wait,  wait — oh,  here's  that 
rotten  fellow;  he  can't  act.  He  was  no  good 
when  I  was  here  last  Thursday  for  the  third 
time.  The  second  time  I  saw  this  piece — yes, 
the  second  time — a  different  man  played  the 
part,  and  much  better." 

The  many  times  he  tells  his  companion  that 
he  saw  the  piece  three  times  is  meant  for 
everybody's  ears,  not  his  companion's — his 

89 


Theatre  Pests 


companion  knows  it,  having  heard  it  before 
several  times. 

Charles  Dana  Gibson  has  long  ago  drawn 
attention  to  the  irrepressible  pests  (the  peo 
ple  who  chatter  in  the  boxes)  known  as  the 
"chatter-boxes."  Everybody  remembers  Gib 
son's  excellent  drawing  wherein  the  chatter 
boxes  are  encased  in  plate  glass  fronted  boxes, 
so  that  the  audience  and  actors  may  be  spared 
their  constant  interruption.  As  a  rule  chat 
ter-boxes  do  not  desire  to  interrupt  the  show. 
Oh,  no.  They  merely  wish  to  be  heard — and 
they  will  be  heard,  you  bet. 

Somehow  or  other  it  is  not  very  interesting 
to  hear  the  family  history  of  So-and-So's  cook 
as  related  from  one  of  the  boxes  when  you  have 
really  paid  to  hear  Maude  Adams.  Unfortu 
nately  the  box  occupant  thinks  differently,  and 
you  are  regaled  amidst  Maude  Adams's  best 
speeches  to  the  following  tit-bits  of  social 
gossip : 

Maude  Adams:    Do  you  believe  in  fairies? 

Voice  from  the  box :  Say,  she  could  cook  an 
omelet  like  a  bird.  We  were  sorry  to  let  her 
go,  but  she  used  to  get  drunk  in  her  bedroom. 
Fred  caught  her  one  night  speechless. 

Maude  Adams :    You  must  believe  in  fairies. 

90 


Theatre  Pests 


Voice  from  box:  Well,  I  guess  so,  but  she 
must  have  let  out  the  tucks.  It  certainly  looks 
like  the  gown  she  wore  last  year.  Fancy  tell 
ing  us  that  stuff  about  her  husband  in  a  di 
vorce  court!  Yes!  Yes!  One  tooth,  the  lit 
tle  darling.  The  wedding  was  all  right,  but 
the  refreshments  very  poor — no  wine,  no,  not 
a  drop,  wine  was  at  least  expected.  I  hardly 
like  to  say  anything  unkind,  for  she  was  al 
ways  a  very  close  friend  of  mine.  We  have 
been  the  dearest  friends  for  years  and  years 
and  years.  She  is  still  my  dearest  friend,  but 
I  do  think  she  behaved  shabbily  to  me,  and  I 
don't  wish  her  the  least  harm — but  she'll  get 
her  deserts.  I  hope  so,  don't  you?"  Oh!  the 
chatter-boxes  never  will  be,  etc. 

The  box-cad  is  first  cousin  to  the  chatter 
box.  You  know  the  superior  person  who  turns 
his  or  her  back  to  the  whole  stage  during  the 
whole  of  the  show. 

Of  course,  it  makes  an  artist  very  happy 
and  comfortable  to  see  a  bounder's  back.  The 
immaculately  dressed  cad  who  stares  at  the 
audience  with  the  "I'll  be  noticed-at-any-price" 
expression  and  intrudes  his  objectionable  per 
sonality  is  the  limit.  You've  seen  him.  He 
hangs  right  out  of  the  box  as  if  trying  to  look 

91 


Theatre  Pests 


up  the  centre  aisle.  Sometimes  he  wears  a 
monocle,  but  mostly  handles  a  terrific  pair  of 
opera  glasses  trimmed  with  tortoise  shell  to 
be  all  the  more  conspicuous. 

Immediately  the  curtain  ascends  he  settles 
down  comfortably  (writh  his  back  to  the  stage) 
to  stare  at  the  audience.  Should  the  pretty 
girl  in  the  front  row  not  look  his  way  the 
bounder  will  rattle  his  program  to  attract  at 
tention.  Oh,  he's  full  of  such  tricks.  If  the 
scene  upon  the  stage  is  too  intense  or  interest 
ing  the  bounder  will  rise  (at  the  critical  mo 
ment)  and  leave  the  box  to  smoke  a  scented 
cigarette  in  the  promenade.  And  he  rises  with 
such  a  bored  expression,  too — it's  beastly  aw 
ful  to  be  forced  into  a  prominent  seat  at  a 
first-class  show,  doncherknow,  where  the  pub 
lic  can  gaze  upon  you  at  will — the  common  vul 
gar  public.  It's  awful.  I  hereby  have  much 
pleasure  in  voting  that  the  box-cad  be  put  upon 
the  list  where  he  never  would  be  missed — fur 
ther,  I  propose  that  he  be  made  chairman. 

Another  type  of  pest  is  the  fellow  who  is 
always  looking  for  pests — that's  myself ;  but — 
I  am  not  always  like  this.  Probably  I  shall 
have  something  to  say — in  the  future — of  the 
many  charming  people  one  meets  at  the  thea- 

92 


Theatre  Pests 


tre — and  no  doubt  I'll  find  much  more  copy— 
for  the  good  far  outweigh  the  bad. 

The  fellow  who  goes  out  for  a  drink  at 
every  entr'acte  with  the  polite  remark,  "Don't 
get  up,  please,"  or  "So  sorry"  as  he  does  a 
"Liza  crossing  the  ice"  back  and  forth  on  your 
toes — with  a  stronger  breath  every  trip — is  not 
calculated  to  improve  your  humane  outlook. 

The  alleged  operatically-inclined  young  per 
son  who  hums  the  air  above  the  sound  of  the 
orchestra  is  maddening — conceited  know-all, 
that  he  is.  He  actually  thinks  that  his  render 
ing  is  much  more  pleasing  than  the  orches 
tra's. 

Funniest  of  all  pests,  though,  is  the  self- 
appointed  amateur  critic  who  lets  all  the  audi 
ence  in  his  vicinity  know  what  he  thinks  of  the 
regular  critic — and  he,  of  course,  ends  his  at 
tack  with  the  bromide,  "Well,  of  course,  his  is 
only  one  man's  opinion." 

By  the  way — I'd  better  leave  off  now — or 
somebody  will  be  putting  me  on  the  list. 


93 


"FIFT  A  YEN 00" 

SO  THIS  IS  FIFT'  AVENOO,"  said  the 
stranger  from  Wichita,  Kansas,  in  dis 
gust  as  he  was  roughly  elbowed  off  the 
sidewalk  by  the  seething  mass  of  foreign-born 
loft-workers  who  at  lunch  hour  infest  "The 
Avenue  of  the  Allies"  anywhere  below  Twenty- 
Third  Street. 

Way  back  in  his  home  town  the  local  news 
papers  and  movie  theaters  had  often  pictured 
to  him  a  magnificent  boulevard  of  wealth  and 
fashion — but  here  he  was  at  last,  sadly  disap 
pointed  in  the  street  of  his  dreams,  for  some 
mischance  had  directed  him  to  the  wrong  end 
of  it.  "So  this  is  Fift'  Avenoo,"  he  kept  mut 
tering  to  himself  as  he  was  caught  in  the 
powerful  undertow  of  humanity  which  surged 
about  the  corner  of  Twenty-Third  Street  and 
Fifth  Avenue,  till  a  sympathetic  New  Yorker, 
scenting  his  quest,  directed  him  a  few  blocks 
north  into  the  land  of  Tiffany  and  types. 

Of  course  Fifth  Avenue  has  been  overdone 
journalistically  and  the  shelves  of  public 
libraries  and  book  stores  are  filled  with 
beautifully  bound  volumes  describing  the  old 
Knickerbocker  families,  their  abodes,  their 
horses,  art  and  hothouses  on  Fifth  Avenue; 
but  I  venture  to  think  that  the  human  char- 

95 


"FifC  Avenoo" 

acters  from  the  four  corners  of  the  earth  that 
one  encounters  on  the  famous  thoroughfare 
today  have  never  been  adequately  "done." 

Of  what  interest  are  the  palatial  homes  of 
Xew  York's  Four  Hundred,  or  the  smart  shops, 
as  compared  with  the  delightful  human  types 
that,  more  than  ever  since  the  beginning  of 
the  war,  crowd  the  avenue.  Rich  squatters 
(ranch  owners)  from  Australia,  bound  for 
London ;  dapper  French  officers,  distinguished- 
looking  foreigners  (diplomatists  from  the 
courts  of  the  Allies),  broad-shouldered,  ruddy- 
faced  Anzacs,  swagger  British  officers  escort 
ing  athletic  American  young  women,  hand 
some  West  Pointers  (just  the  kind  Ley  en- 
decker  draws)  promenading  with  sweet  Harri 
son  Fisher  girls,  who  look  as  if  they  stepped 
from  the  magazine  covers,  prominent  stars 
of  the  stage  and  screen,  and — well — as  a  mat 
ter  of  fact.  Fifth  Avenue  is  merely  a  screen 
upon  which  men  and  women,  merely  players, 
are  projected  for  our  enjoyment. 

Look — rubbing  shoulders  with  the  wife  of  a 
railroad  king  is  a  pale,  bearded  stranger  in 
heavy  fur  coat  and  cap.  He,  a  few  weeks  ago, 
was  received  in  audience  by  kings  whose 

96 


"  Fift'  Avenoo" 

thrones  were  tottering.  He  is  here  on  official 
business  of  a  foreign  government,  and  prob 
ably  carries  in  that  mysterious  looking  wallet 
documents  that — but  what  is  the  use  of  sur 
mising,  for  somebody  closer  to  our  hearts  is 
flashed  upon  the  avenue's  screen.  A  dough 
boy  (proudly  wearing  the  Croix  de  Guerre), 
with  a  little  woman  in  black  (presumably  his 
mother)  clinging  to  his  arm;  The  traffic  police 
man  releases  a  flood  of  vehicles  and  dams  the 
human  tide  with  his  "go"  sign,  and  so  we  view 
the  flashing  types  as  "stills"  for  a  moment.  A 
close-up  of  our  doughboy  reveals  the  fact  that 
mother  and  son  are  very  silent,  just  content  to 
be  in  each  other's  company  again.  He  is  no 
toy  soldier,  but  has  been  through  the  flame; 
the  expression  on  his  face  would  denote  that, 
even  if  the  stripes  on  his  sleeve  were  covered. 
Fifth  is  a  splendid  avenue  upon  which  to 
study  the  behavior  of  crowds.  Here,  in  the 
window  of  a  famous  art  dealer  is  a  glorious 
Meissonier.  Thousands  of  well-dressed,  seem 
ingly  cultured  people  pass  it  by  without  a 
glance,  yet  the  same  people  crowd  around  the 
window  of  a  store  but  a  few  paces  away  breath 
lessly  admiring  a  sign-writer,  who,  with 
camel's-hair  brush,  is  laying  the  gold  leaf  upon 

97 


"Fife  Avenoo" 

his  lettering.  Strange  also  is  the  fact  that  a 
crowd  of  fashionable  folk,  who  a  moment 
previously  hadn't  a  second  to  spare,  and  were 
"shockingly  busy"  or  "terribly  rushed,"  will 
linger  for  an  hour  infatuated  by  the  sight 
of  a  tiny  speck  of  a  man  painting  a  flagstaff 
some  eighteen  stories  above  the  sidewalk. 

A  good  spot  for  close-ups  on  the  avenue  is  at 
the  window  where  an  exhibition  of  luscious 
fruit  and  nuts  tempts  some  passers-by  to  linger 
and  give  vent  to  "bromides,"  the  most  popular 
of  which  seems  to  be,  "Oh,  aren't  they  wonder 
ful!  They  are  just  like  wax."  Judging  by 
the  remarks  picked  up  at  the  fruit-store  win 
dow,  it  seems  that  there  are  a  lot  of  kindly 
folk  who  still  believe  that  nature  cannot  pro 
duce  anything  in  the  same  line  so  beautiful 
as  paper  flowers  or  tinted  wax  fruit. 

A  chat  with  the  manager  of  one  of  the 
numerous  picture  galleries  on  the  avenue  gives 
one  a  new  viewpoint  on  art  patrons.  "A 
shabby-looking  individual,  and  suspicious- 
looking  at  that,"  said  the  art  man,  "may  walk 
into  our  galleries  and  ask  for  a  Corot  or  a 
Burne-Jones.  Do  you  see  that  man  over  there? 
He  is  a  wealthy  Australian  squatter.  You 
wouldn't  think  so  to  look  at  him,  yet  he  has  a 

98 


"Fife  Avenoo" 

passion  for  buying — at  big  prices,  too — every 
thing  of  Frederic  Remington's  he  can  lay  his 
hands  on.  No,  he  doesn't  pretend  to  know 
anything  about  art,  but  he  says  that  Reming 
ton's  pictures  of  horses  and  cattle,  his  hand 
ling  of  sunlight,  hazy  blue  foothills,  great 
mountains  and  open  spaces,  remind  him  of  his 
beloved  Australia,  so  he  buys — just  to  give  to 
his  London  pals." 

In  the  art  stores  is  the  place  to  study  the 
avenue  types  in  repose.  "I  don't  know  much 
about  pictures,"  said  a  sprightly  girl  to  her 
companion,  "but  this  is  a  handy  place  to  step 
in  out  of  the  cold  to  powder  my  nose  and  fix 
my  hair,"  and  then  by  way  of  creating  atmos 
phere  she  will  ask  the  price  of  a  piece  of  statu 
ary,  and  when  she  is  informed  that  it  can  be 
had  for  f  6600  will  reply,  "Isn't  it  cute." 

On  the  other  hand,  devotees  of  the  various 
art  cults  are  to  be  found  worshiping  at  the 
shrine  of  their  favorites,  and  if  one  listens 
it  is  possible  to  hear  a  group  of  art  school 
students  speaking  such  familiar  words  as  mid 
dle  distance,  lack  of  feeling,  balance,  techni 
que,  handling,  perspective,  etc.,  etc. 

Fifth  Avenue  at  Forty-Second  is  a  new 
world  since  the  saving  of  democracy  started, 

99 


"Fiff  Avenoo" 

for,  from  the  library  steps,  temporarily  con 
verted  into  a  sort  of  midway,  orators,  artists, 
singers  and  entertainers  have  launched 
"Lend,"  "Save,"  "Give"  and  "Fight"  cam 
paigns  which  have  brought  in  their  train  a 
host  of  people  new  to  the  avenue. 

A  policeman  on  duty  in  the  crowd  at  the 
corner,  while  trying  to  sift  one  of  the  various 
languages  spoken  from  the  other,  despairingly 
threw  up  his  hands  saying,  "They  call  this  the 
Avenue  of  the  Allies,  but  it's  the  Tower  of 
Babel  itself."  Now  that  the  war  is  over,  the 
officers'  and  men's  shelters,  inquiry  booths, 
etc.,  erected  upon  the  library  steps,  help  to  re 
tain  the  war-time  atmosphere  which  some 
what  marred  the  classic  outlines  of  the  great 
building. 

No  matter  how  much  has  been  written  of 
Fifth  Avenue,  nobody  ever  suspected  that 
Salvation  Army  lassies,  rollicking  sailor  boys, 
French  marines,  female  captains  of  police, 
etc.,  would  have  to  be  added  to  its  permanent 
gallery  of  street  sketches.  The  "drives"  and 
festivities  of  the  last  few  years  have  discovered 
Fifth  Avenue  for  a  lot  of  strangers,  and  they 
have  come  to  stay. 

There  is  ample  sketching  material  in  the 

100 


11  FifC  Avenoo" 

well-meant,  kindly  ladies  of  stout  middle  age 
whom  the  war  has  thrust  into  official  uniform, 
including  leggings  and  spurs,  and  the  eternal 
feminine  is  evidenced  in  the  khaki-clad  girl 
who  sits  in  the  chauffeur's  seat  of  an  ambu 
lance — knitting. 

Near  some  of  the  famous  stores  the  curb 
stone  once  sacred  to  the  waiting  footman, 
who,  rug  over  arm,  proudly  awaited  his  august 
mistress,  is  being  invaded  by  the  poorer 
classes,  who  come  to  watch  the  returned 
soldiers.  Before  the  war,  such  an  intrusion 
by  the  inhabitants  of  Seventh,  Eighth  and 
Ninth  into  the  sacred  precincts  of  Fifth  was 
unheard  of. 

While  projecting  our  Fifth  Avenue  pictures, 
let  us  flash  back  a  moment  and  register  a  char 
acteristic  bit  which  is  typical  of  the  famous 
street.  There  are  the  windows  of  the  clubs, 
each  framing  the  kind  of  clubman  we  all  know 
so  well.  Leaning  back  in  a  heavy  upholstered 
(red  morocco)  arm-chair,  with  gold-rimmed 
Oxford  low  down  on  his  nose,  the  only  thing 
visible  above  his  afternoon  paper,  he  is  a  thing 
apart,  unapproachable  to  the  masses,  his 
reserve  accentuated  by  the  heavy  plush  cur- 

101 


"Fife  Avenoo" 

tains  which  drape  the  windows  that  frame 
him. 

And  now  to  the  Plaza  and  Savoy  near  the 
entrance  to  the  park,  which  is  given  over 
mostly  to  entrancing  girls  in  riding  habits, 
attendant  grooms  and  mettlesome  (some 
times)  saddle  horses.  Here  the  avenue,  with 
its  wealth  and  fashion,  is  as  far  apart  from 
the  Washington  Square  end  with  its  alleged 
Bohemianism,  as  the  poles. 

How  I  would  love  to  see  our  friend  from 
Wichita,  Kansas,  in  this  vicinity,  say  on  Sun 
day  afternoon,  when  smart  New  York  is  taking 
a  ride  to  the  park  via  Fifth  Avenue.  T  guess 
he  would  write  to  the  folks  back  home,  "Fiff 
Avenoo  is  some  street." 


102 


WITH  GENIUS  ON  THE 
HIGH  SEAS 

On  Board  S.  S.  George  Washington,  en  route  to 
America. 

November,  1910. 

PUCCINI  occupied  the  royal  suite,  as  befit 
ted  the  royal  composer.  Out  on  the  At 
lantic,  it  is  my  joy  and  privilege  to  pass  most 
of  the  time  with  the  genius  who  has  brightened 
our  lives  with  the  melodies  of  "La  Boheme" 
and  "Madame  Butterfly.  Puccini  in  appear 
ance  is  in  violent  contrast  to  the  picture  of  a 
soulful  composer  as  given  to  the  world  by  the 
average  novelist.  Plain  of  speech  and  dress 
(the  long  hair  and  velvet  coat  are  sadly  miss 
ing),  shy,  genuinely  shy,  and  gentle  of  man 
ner,,  restful  of  disposition,  absolutely  lacking 
in  "pose,"  Puccini  is  a  delightfully  sane  com 
panion.  The  every-day,  common  or  garden 
variety  of  genius  is  a  man  who  pretends  to 
curse  people  who  ask  for  his  autograph.  He 
pushes  himself  to  the  front  in  a  crowd  and 
then  pretends  to  complain  because  he  is 
noticed. 

Puccini,  while  romping  with  the  children 
on  deck,  stopped  a  dozen  times  to  write  auto 
graphs  without  complaint.  The  other  night 

103 


With  Genius  on  the 
High  Seas 

while  we  were  talking  of — well,  everything 
under  the  sun  but  music — one  of  those  aboard- 
ship  pests,  noticing  the  composer's  proximity, 
sat  down  at  the  piano  and  played  snatches  of 
"La  Boheme"  in  ragtime  tempo.  When  she 
finished  Puccini  arose  and  bowed  his  thanks 
without  an  unkind  murmur.  The  big,  child 
like  man  actually  felt  honored. 

Puccini  works  steadily  and  does  not  pretend 
to  await  divine  inspiration.  "I  wrote  'The 
Girl  of  the  Golden  West'  in  one  year  and  a 
half,  at  night,  on  coiTee,"  lie  said.  "During 
the  day  I  hung  about  my  home,  Torre  del 
Lago,  at  Viareggio,  in  Tuscany,  fishing  and 
shooting." 

Tito  Ricordi,  the  famous  Milanese  pub 
lisher,  was  aboard  en  route  with  Puccini  to 
see  the  premiere  of  "The  Girl  of  the  Golden 
West"  at  the  Metropolitan.  He  (Ricordi) 
brought  the  score  to  the  music  salon  on  the  up 
per  deck  and  we  sat  enraptured  as  his  fingers 
called  forth  the  harmonies  that  Puccini  had 
written  for  Minnie  to  sing  in  the  (then)  forth 
coming  production.  The  composer  sat  quietly 
humming,  and  one  by  one  the  deck  promenad- 

104 


With  Geniuslpn  the 
High  Seas 

ers  stole  into  the  salon  to  remain  enchained 
and  enchanted. 

Under  the  spell — Puccini  made  us  actually 
feel  the  rugged  warmth  of  Belasco's  romance, 
with  all  its  glorious  Western  color — the  com 
poser's  son  sat  with  us.  "What  is  the  boy  go 
ing  to  be?"  I  asked.  "Oh,  he's  in  the  auto 
mobile  business/'  Puccini  replied.  "He  is  no 
good  for  music.  He  will  have  a  better  time  as 
a  boy  than  I  had."  Then  of  course  I  asked 
him  to  tell  me  the  story  of  his  life,  etc.  He 
dispelled  somewhat  my  romantic  ideas  about 
Italy — beautiful  Italy,  idealizing  its  com 
posers.  "As  soon  as  a  man  is  going  up  Italian 
critics  try  to  keep  him  down,"  he  said. 
"France,  Germany  and  America,  any  of  these 
countries,  are  Arcadian  for  the  Italian  com 
poser,  but  Italy — home!"  Puccini,  with  a  sig 
nificant  shrug  of  his  shoulders,  intimated 
more  than  words  can  suggest. 

"Of  course  I  had  a  dreadful  time  before  I 
became  known" — here  Signor  Ricordi,  who 
has  been  in  the  U.  S.  A.  before,  said  in  true 
American  style,  "He  was  up  against  it  good 
and  hard" — "but  that  is  the  lot  of  most  people 
who  write  music.  In  1904  'Madame  Butterfly' 

105 


With  Genius  on  the 
High  Seas 

was  a  failure  in  Milan,  but  three  months  later 
I  altered  it  from  two  long  acts  to  three  short 
ones,  and  it  was  a  frantic  success." 

Some  one  in  the  group  asked  Puccini  how 
he  writes  such  beautiful  stuff.  It  was  a  silly 
question,  but  I  was  surprised  at  the  practical 
reply. 

"I  live  with  my  characters  for  months  be 
fore  I  write  a  note,"  he  replied.  "I  read  and 
reread  Belasco's  play  till  I  felt  that  I  knew 
my  characters  thoroughly.  I  went  off  with 
my  gun  and  had  a  good  deal  of  sport,  but  still 
thinking  of  Minnie  and  the  Sheriff,  and  I 
thought  of  them  till  I  was  able  to  put  their 
thoughts  into  my  score.  I  compose  always 
at  the  piano,  and  once  I  understand  and  catch 
the  spirit  of  my  characters,  melody  comes  very 
easily  to  me." 

We  took  a  stroll  while  the  ship's  orchestra 
played  on  the  promenade  deck.  The  spirit  of 
fun  took  hold  of  the  composer  and  he  sug 
gested  that  Kicordi  should  play  the  big  drum. 
The  publisher  did  as  he  was  bid  and  Puccini 
roared  with  laughter  as  his  friend  took  the 
stick  from  the  regular  drummer  and  nearly 
"broke  up"  the  band  in  consequence.  This 

106 


With  Genius  onjhe 
High  Seas 

little  incident  endeared  Puccini  to  the  pas 
sengers,  for  as  a  rule  all  the  people  see  and 
hear  of  a  big  personage  aboard  is  his  or  her 
name  on  the  passenger  list. 

Puccini,  so  he  says,  is  looking  for  another 
story  somewhat  of  the  nature  of  "La  Boheme." 
I  read  to  him  several  of  O.  Henry's  short 
stories  and  he  was  much  impressed  with  them, 
but  he  considered  them  "too  much  New  York." 
Though  they  were  not  acceptable  to  him  for 
musical  purposes,  he  was  deeply  touched  by 
the  beautifully  pathetic  note  that  ran  through 
such  of  the  O.  Henry  stories  as  "An  Unfinished 
Story"  and  "The  Service  of  Love."  I  told 
him  the  story  of  the  beloved  writer's  recent 
death  in  New  York  (you  remember  how  O. 
Henry  asked  the  nurse  to  bring  the  candle  to 
his  deathbed  because  he  was  "Afraid  to  go 
home  in  the  dark") — well,  Puccini  was  much 
affected  when  he  heard  of  it. 

Henry  Arthur  Jones 

Everyone  aboard  the  George  Washington 
considers  Jones  morose  and  standoffish.  The 
playwright  seems  always  to  be  in  the  midst 
of  unravelling  an  intricate  plot.  He  never 

107 


With  Genius  on  the 
High  Seas 

seems  to  sit  or  stand  still,  strenuously  rushing 
about  the  deck,  ever  and  anon  diving  into  the 
smoking  room  to  sit  on  one  chair,  then  on  an 
other,  one  minute  or  a  half  allotted  to  each. 
He  is  mighty  hard  to  keep  pace  with.  He  is 
the  first  man  to  finish  his  afternoon  tea — 
scalding  hot  tea,  too — the  first  at  the  dinner 
table  and  the  first  away.  I  became  acquainted 
with  Mr.  Jones  under  peculiar  circumstances. 
Every  morning  I  was  in  the  ship's  gymnasium 
at  8  o'clock  riding  one  of  the  electric  horses. 
On  the  third  morning  out  I  happened  to  be 
riding  the  horse  next  to  the  one  on  which  the 
famous  playwright  was  mounted.  As  we  gal 
loped  along  side  by  side,  mentally  enjoying 
a  ride  in  the  park  out  in  the  middle  of  the 
ocean,  Jones  offered  me  a  cigarette.  I  de 
clined  in  the  words  of  Jaikes,  in  "The  Silver 
King,"  "There's  so  many  boys  taking  to  smok 
ing  now."  This  tickled  the  author  of  "The 
Silver  King"  and  from  then  on  we  became 
very  friendly.  He  was  delighted  to  learn  that 
I  was  a  pupil  of  his  old  friend,  George  Gordon, 
the  celebrated  scenic  artist  in  Australia. 

I  told  Mr.  Jones  many  stories  of  the  differ 
ent  productions  of  "The  Silver  King"  in  the 

108 


With  Genius  on  the 
High  Seas 

Antipodes,  and  he  confided  to  me  the  astonish 
ing  fact  that  he  had  sold  the  rights  (outright) 
of  the  famous  piece  to  Williamson,  Garner  & 
Musgrove  for  fifty  pounds. 

Once  you  nail  Henry  Arthur  Jones  to  a 
chair  in  the  smoking  room  the  famous  play 
wright  is  a  world  of  reminiscence  of  the  the 
atrical  world  of  London.  His  many  stories 
of  eccentric  and  otherwise  actor  folk  are 
mighty  interesting.  By  the  way,  before  I  for 
get  it,  he  recalled  to  my  memory  a  rather 
noted  cartoon  by  the  late  Phil  May.  When 
Jones's  "The  Liars"  was  first  produced  in 
London  the  witty  Punch  artist  had  a  picture 
of  a  crowded  bus-top  on  London's  streets.  The 
line,  "The  Liars,"  in  huge  letters,  occupied 
the  whole  of  the  advertising  board  along  the 
side  of  the  bus-top,  and  behind  it,  blissfully 
ignorant  of  the  prominent  caption,  sat  many 
of  the  best-known  politicians  of  the  day. 

When  we  left  Southampton  the  English 
dailies  put  aboard  contained,  of  course,  head 
lines  and  pictures  relative  to  the  author's 
departure  for  America. 

An  autograph  pest  finding  Jones  aboard,  as 
sailed  him  with,  "Oh,  Mr.  Jones,  I  did  so  en- 

109 


With  Genius  on  the 
High  Seas 

joy  your  lovely  play,  'The  Whip/  at  Drury 
Lane,  and  as  for  'The  Importance  of  Being 
Earnest/  it  was  just  bully.  Won't  you  please 
autograph  my  book?" 

Jones,  without  a  smile,  wrote  in  the  book 
quotations  from  both  "The  Whip"  and  "The 
Importance  of  Being  Earnest,"  and  quietly 
added  in  large  letters  the  authors'  names— 
neither  of  which,  of  course  were  his  own. 

Jones  quickly  dispelled  the  idea  that  he  was 
a  morose  individual  when  he  fell  a  victim  to 
the  charms  of  a  pretty  Western  girl  passenger. 
One  morning  the  author  was  hurrying  along 
the  promenade  deck  at  a  twenty-mile-an-hour 
gate.  Miss  Kahn,  a  San  Francisco  beauty, 
happened  to  remark  in  passing,  "Oh,  gee!  I 
feel  like  two-bits  this  morning."  Jones  heard 
her  and  stopped  to  ask,  "Will  you  kindly  ex 
plain  to  me  what  'two-bits'  means?" 

For  the  next  few  days  Henry  Arthur  Jones 
was  tame  and  listened  without  protest  to  long 
descriptions  of  Yosemite  Valley,  the  Grand 
Canyon  of  Arizona  and  the  Shasta  Koute.  Miss 
Kahn  predicts  that  the  next  play  from  the  pen 
of  Jones  will  be  "Calif ornian  in  character  if 
I  can  help  it.  And  let  me  tell  you  something," 

110 


With  Genius  on  the 
High  Seas 

she  added,  "there's  going  to  be  a  two-bit  girl 
in  it." 

Throughout  Australia,  my  native  land,  "The 
Silver  King,"  one  of  Jones's  earliest  plays,  is 
known  and  loved.  The  play  is  entwined  with 
the  theatrical  history  of  the  Antipodes,  and  as 
I  write,  many  memories  of  famous  Australian 
actors  who  have  become  identified  with  the 
parts  of  Wilfred  Denver,,  Jaikes  and  The 
Spider  crowd  to  my  mind.  George  Titheradge, 
the  original  Wilfred  Denver  of  the  Australian 
production,  is  still  living  *  and  only  recently 
played  with  Marie  Tempest  at  Frohman's 
Empire  on  Broadway.  The  original  Spider 
was  Arthur  Garner  of  the  firm  of  Williamson, 
Garner  &  Musgrove,  and  a  mighty  fine  reading 
of  the  part  he  gave.  I  have  seen  productions 
of  Jones's  "The  Liars"  in  nearly  all  countries, 
but  I  have  never  seen  a  better  representation 
than  the  one  given  by  Brough  and  Boucicault 
in  Australia. 

Henry  Arthur  Jones  tells  me  that  America 
has  better  playwrights  than  England,  but 
thinks  they  lack  polish.  He  is  full  of  warm 


*  George    Titheridge    died    since    this    story    was    first 
published. 

Ill 


With  Genius  on  the 
High  Seas 

appreciation  of  American  audiences,  whom  he 
thinks  quick  to  respond,  and  intelligent. 
Touching  upon  vaudeville,  he  says  that  the 
high-class  sketch  has  not  the  footing  in  Eng 
land  that  it  has  undoubtedly  obtained  in 
America,  and  he  feels  sure  that  the  sketch  has 
not  only  come  to  stay,  but  that  its  influence 
will  be  far-reaching. 


112 


A  DAYINABOATWITH 
MADAM  MELBA 

IN  the  Government  launch  lying  on  the  still 
waters  of  beautiful  Middle  Harbor,  Sydney, 
Australia,  beneath  an  indescribably  blue 
sky  and  amid  the  everchanging  lights  and 
shadows  of  the*  green-clad  hills,  there  was 
heard  the  voice  of  Melba  across  the  waters. 

"Coo-ee!     Coo-ee!"  she  called. 

Away  up  on  the  hilltop,  nestling  among  the 
gums,  is  the  home  of  Australia's  famous  actor, 
George  Rignold.  Far  from  the  madding 
crowd  and  the  footlights'  glare,  the  grand  old 
man  rests,  while  fond  memory  brings  the  light 
of  other  days.  'Way  back  when  Melba  was 
Nellie  Armstrong,  she  used  to  go  to  the  theatre 
and  fall  in  love,  like  all  Australian  matinee 
girls,  with  "Handsome  George,"  as  Eignold 
was  affectionately  called  in  the  Antipodes; 
and  when  she  returned  to  her  native  land  from 
her  conquests  abroad,  and  while  her  country 
men — and  women — were  showering  money, 
flowers  and  applause  upon  her,  she  thought 
with  affection  of  the  old  man,  her  one-time 
ideal,  living  so  quietly  among  the  flowers  and 
gum  trees. 

"Coo-ee,,"  rings  across  the  waters  and  echoes 
from  hill  to  hill. 

113 


A  Day  in  a  Boat  with 
Madam  Melba 

"Who  is  it?  What  is  it?"  answers  a  voice, 
megaphoned  from  the  hilltop  cottage. 

"Mme.  Melba  presents  her  compliments  to 
dear  George  Rignold,  and  hopes  he  is  well  and 
happy,"  calls  Melba. 

Presently  the  old  man  himself  came  on  the 
little  veranda,  and,  taking  the  megaphone, 
speaks  the  lines  from  Shakespeare's  "King 
Henry  V." :  "Once  more  unto  the  breach, 
dear  friends" — the  lines  that  made  Rignold 
famous  throughout  the  English-speaking  the 
atrical  world.  As  the  lines  spoken  by  the  same 
beloved  voice  reached  the  launch  far  below,  a 
group  of  men  and  women,  with  bared  heads, 
listened  with  tears  in  their  eyes. 

"Come  down  to  us,"  called  Melba. 

Down  the  narrow  footway  the  well-known 
figure  made  its  way,  while  the  launch  party 
watched  and  shouted  encouragement.  Hale 
and  proud  of  mien,  clad  in  blue  jumper  and 
gray  trousers,  with  a  broad-brimmed  hat  and 
flowing  tie,  it  was  easy  to  understand  (as  the 
old  actor  boarded  the  launch  from  a  small 
rowboat)  why  he  swayed  his  audiences.  The 
light  in  his  eye  shone  as  brightly  as  of  yore, 
and  the  powerful  voice  had  lost  none  of  its 

114 


A  Day  in  a  Boat  with 
Madam  Melba 

music.  The  few  who  were  privileged  to  wit 
ness  the  meeting  between  Melba  and  Rignold 
will  never  forget  it.  The  old  man,  with  some 
thing  of  a  manner  of  the  many  kings  he  had 
portrayed,  lifted  his  hat,  with  an  Old  World 
courtesy,  and,  bending  over  the  diva's  hand, 
kissed  it,  and  said: 

"I  salute  you,  star  in  the  ascendant.  We 
are  like  the  new  and  the  old  year — you  are 
coming  in  as  I  am  going  out."  It  was  New 
Year's  Day,  and  Melba  had  thought  of  this 
tribute  to  Australia's  famous  tragedian. 
Hence  the  launch  picnic,  which  marks  one  of 
the  happiest  experiences  of  the  writer's  life. 

Boarding  the  launch  at  the  man-o'-war's 
steps  on  a  typical  Australian  Summer  day  we 
steamed  away  among  the  hills  and  waters  of 
a  scene  that  could  only  be  compared  to  a 
delicate  water-color  drawing  by  some  master 
hand.  Even  then  the  comparison  is  futile. 
After  all,  it  is  the  gladness  of  the  heart  that 
makes  the  hills,  the  waters  and  all  nature  seem 
so  fair;  and  an  Australian  Summer  day  does 
make  the  heart  feel  glad.  Melba  had  said  that 
it  was  to  be  a  day  of  real  happiness,  absolutely 
devoid  of  all  ceremony  and  speechmaking. 

115 


A  Day  in  a  Boat  with 
Madam  Melba 

"Do  you  know,"  she  remarked,  "to-day  I 
mean  to  eat  with  my  fingers!  I  am  going  to 
do  without  a  knife  and  fork,  and  be  a  real 
kid."  Suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  she 
passed  around  slices  of  ham  and  chicken,  and 
we  all  laughed  and  "acted  the  goat,"  as  they 
say  in  Australia,  with  the  delightful  free 
dom  of  it  all.  Only  the  members  of  her 
company,  and  one  or  two  intimate  friends,  in 
cluding  Hugh  J.  Ward,  managing  director  of 
J.  C.  Williamson,  Ltd.,  and  Mr.  Holman,  then 
Premier  of  New  South  Wales,  were  of  the 
party.  When  Melba  took  the  helm  and  guided 
the  launch  in  and  out  of  the  many  glorious 
nooks  of  the  world's  most  wondrous  harbor 
we  felt  that  she  was  indeed  a  queen.  Not  only 
Queen  of  Song,  but  the  Queen  of  Bohemia— 
not  the  Bohemia  of  cheap  literature,  but  the 
Bohemia  of  tried  and  true  friendship,  which 
Melba  undoubtedly  inspires  in  all  who  know 
her.  Many  stories  of  Melba  when  she  was 
Nellie  Armstrong  have  endeared  her  to  the 
Australian  public.  The  devil-may-care,  lov 
able  Nellie's  greatest  crime?  was  daring!  She 
would  take  a  six-foot  fence  or  the  widest  ditch 
mounted  on  her  father's  most  untamable 

116 


A  Day  in  a  Boat  with 
Madam  Melba 

thoroughbred  and  laugh  at  the  danger.  Nellie 
Armstrong  was  not  popular  with  her  teachers 
at  the  ladies'  college  where  she  was  educated 
in  Melbourne  (her  native  city,  from  which  she 
adapted  her  now  famous  name),  for  she  was 
too  outspoken  and  impatient  of  injustice — 
always  befriending  and  fighting  for  the  weak. 

A  story  is  told  of  Nellie  Armstrong  waiting 
upon  the  principal  of  the  ladies'  college  to 
lodge  a  complaint.  It  seems  that  the  scholars 
complained  among  themselves  of  the  food,  but 
none  had  the  courage  to  carry  their  grievance 
to  the  head  teacher. 

Nellie  "formed"  herself  into  a  deputation  of 
one,  and  went  in  to  attend  to  the  matter. 
What  she  said  changed  the  food,  but  Melba 
had  to  change  her  school. 

Well,  on  the  launch  this  New  Year's  Day 
Nellie  Armstrong  suppressed  the  speechmak- 
ing,  steered  the  vessel,  poured  out  the  tea  and 
made  us  all  laugh  and  cry  with  her  funny 
antics  as  well  as  her  charm  of  manner.  She 
had  no  use  for  insincerity,  and  made  no  pre 
tense.  One  of  her  greatest  gifts  is  her  natural 
manner;  she  is  always  the  same.  As  we  lay 
off  a  little  pleasure  ground  called  Killarney, 

117 


A  Day  in  a  Boat  with 
Madam  Melba 

on  Middle  Harbor,  Melba  was  telling  a  little 
group  her  experience  with  the  late  Oscar  Ham- 
merstein. 

"In  my  opinion,"  she  said,  "he  is  the  most 
wonderful  man  in  opera.  Do  you  know,  he 
came  to  my  apartment  in  Paris  a  few  years 
ago  without  an  introduction  of  any  sort.  He 
asked  for  me,  brushed  aside  the  maid,  and 
shoved  into  my  sitting  room.  I  was  in  my 
bath.  He  called  out,  'I  am  Oscar  Hammer- 
stein,  and  I  want  to  talk  with  yon !'  I  re 
sented  somewhat  his  manner  of  procedure,  and 
let  him  know  I  resented  it. 

"He  calmly  sat  in  my  sitting  room,  and 
waited  till  I  came  from  the  bathroom,  clad 
only  in  a  kimono  and  bath  slippers.  Without 
any  preliminaries,  he  said,  'I  want  you  for  my 
Manhattan  in  New  York.' 

"  'I  can't  go,'  I  replied. 

"  'What  is  your  price?'  he  said. 

"  'There  is  no  price ;  I  simply  cannot  go,'  I 
answered. 

"'When  will  you  leave  for  New  York?'  he 
continued,  absolutely  ignoring  rny  refusal. 

"'Don't  you  understand  plain  English?'  I 
said.  'I  simply  will  not  sing  for  you !' 

118 


A  Day  in  a  Boat  with 
Madam  Melba 

"He  took  from  his  pocket  French,  English 
and  American  bills,  amounting  to  nearly  $15,- 
000 ;  placed  them  on  my  table,  and  left,  saying, 
(I  will  call  to-morrow  morning  at  9.30.'  He 
did  not  count  the  money ;  he  did  not  ask  for  a 
receipt. 

"I  did  not  see  him  for  ten  days.  Try  as  I 
would,  I  could  find  no  trace  of  him.  All  in 
quiries  at  the  principal  hotels,  at  the  United 
States  Ambassador's  office  and  elsewhere, 
failed  to  discover  him.  I  put  the  money  in 
my  desk,  after  carefully  counting  it,  and  de 
termined  to  return  it  at  the  earliest  possible 
moment.  On  the  tenth  day  after  his  visit,  I 
was  shopping  on  the  Avenue  de  1'Opera,  when 
who  should  follow  me  into  a  glove  store  but 
the  redoubtable  Oscar,  with  his  famous  hat 
and  his  big  cigar. 

"  'I  have  announced  your  "coming"  to  New 
York,'  he  said.  'What  opera  will  you  open 
in?' 

"I  tried  to  be  indignant;  I  told  him  I  felt 
angry  and  humiliated,  but  my  indignation 
affected  the  impresario  as  water  effects  a 
duck's  back.  'Why  didn't  you  return  to  my 
apartment  the  next  morning,  as  you  prom- 

119 


A  Day  in  a  Boat  with 
Madam  Melba 

ised?'  I  asked.  He  ignored  the  question,  but 
I  subsequently  learned  that  he  had  been 
tinkering  with  a  mechanical  device  for  which 
he  was  taking  out  a  patent.  Hammerstein  is 
somewhat  of  a  mechanic  when  he  is  not  com 
posing  a  waltz,  writing  an  opera,  or  engaging 
tenors  and  sopranos.  To  make  a  long  story 
short,  I  played  at  his  Manhattan  Opera  House, 
without  a  contract  of  any  sort,  and  found 
Oscar  Hammerstein  absolutely  on  the  level. 

"Do  you  know,"  Melba  continued,  "I  have 
never  signed  a  contract  of  any  sort  for  the  last 
fifteen  years.  I  simply  will  not  sign  a  piece  of 
paper.  My  word  is  my  bond,  and  it  is  some 
what  of  a  pride  with  me  that  impresarios 
throughout  the  world  know  it." 

The  Queen  of  Song  is  an  Australian  of 
Australians,  and  she  is  never  so  happy  as 
when  breathing  the  air  of  her  native  land. 
Roaming  among  the  ferns  in  the  gullies,  or 
riding  tlrrough  the  big  gums,  is  more  inspiring 
to  her,  she  remarked,  than  the  center  of  the 
world's  musical  cities.  And  it  is  easy  to 
understand  why  this  is  so  to  a  nature  like 
hers — ruddy,  willing  and  of  the  soil.  Her 
home  of  homes  at  Lilydale,  Victoria,  Aus- 

120 


A  Day  in  a  Boat  with 
Madam  Melba 

tralia,  is  in  that  atmosphere  adequately  de 
scribed  only  by  the  Australian  poets.  Melba 
says  that  the  most  inviting  thing  in  the  world 
to  her  is  the  smell  of  crushed  eucalyptus  as 
she  walks  upon  the  leaves  on  her  early  morn 
ing  strolls. 

At  home  Melba  is  anything  but  a  great 
artist.  She  betrays  none  of  those  false  at 
tributes  charitably  called  artistic  tempera 
ment.  She  is  simply  the  well-balanced  mis 
tress  of  a  well-ordered  mansion.  Biding,  driv 
ing,  roaming  with  her  dogs,  and  scientific 
gardening  are  her  several  pastimes,  and  the 
whole  atmosphere  of  her  home  life  is  abso 
lutely  devoid  of  theatrical  effect. 

Melba's  affection  for  her  father,  David  Mit 
chell,  who  was  one  of  the  pioneers  of  Victoria, 
has  endeared  her  to  many.  Her  presence  in 
Australia,  when  she  was  due  in  the  Old  World, 
has,  in  addition  to  her  love  for  her  native  land, 
been  solely  on  the  old  man's  account.  For 
Nellie,  with  all  her  wild  ways  and  untamable 
spirit,  has  been  David  Mitchell's  darling. 

David  Mitchell  was  a  wealthy  cement  manu 
facturer,  stern,  forbidding,  and  reticent — in 
fact,  such  stuff  as  hardy  pioneers  are  made  of. 

121 


A  Day  in  a  Boat  with 
Madam  Melba 

He  never  entered  a  theatre  in  his  life  until 
Melba  became  famous.  During  the  opera  sea 
son  in  the  antipodes,  the  white-haired  old  man 
was  a  constant  visitor,  sitting  alone  in  one  of 
the  orchestra  seats,  always  refusing  a  prof 
fered  loge. 

In  Australia  one  hears  constantly  of  the 
assistance  rendered  by  the  great  singer  to 
aspiring  artists.  Many  a  young  antipodean 
has  left  his  or  her  native  land  to  study  abroad 
at  Melba's  expense,  and  the  diva  has  made  it 
a  condition  that  "nothing  is  to  be  said  about 
it." 

We  were  putting  back  to  the  man-of-war 
steps,  lazily  floating  over  a  sea  of  gold,  re 
flected  from  the  sunset  sky.  It  had  been  one 
of  those  days  that  becomes  ineffaceably  en 
graved  upon  the  heart  and  thoughts.  We  joined 
hands  in  the  old-time  chorus,  "Should  old 
acquaintance  be  forgot" ;  and,  as  the  little  gov 
ernment  vessel  tied  up,  Melba  gave  a  last 
"Coo-ee,"  which  went  echoing  across  the  har 
bor  and  was  answered  by  a  boatload  of  rough 
but  kindly  lads,  who,  sailing  nearer,  and 
recognizing  the  diva,  shouted  "Melba,  sing  us 
a  song."  She  would  have  done  so,  but  the 
incident  affected  her  too  deeply. 

122 


MEMORIES 


Leaves  from  an  old  London  sketch  book. 

MEMORIES  of  a  lot  of  splendid  fellows 
are  revived  as  I  look  over  my  old  Lon 
don  sketch  book  and  linger  for  a  mom 
ent  at  a  page  marked  "At  the  Cavour,  after  the 
show."  George  Bull,  who  was  "the  playful 
stallite"  of  London  Opinion;  Dr.  Bird  Page, 
the  wonderful  card  expert,  much  "com 
manded"  by  royalty;  Phil  May  and  Alias  the 
costume  designer ;  Carl  Hertz,  Cinquevalli  and 
a  host  of  writers,  players  and  newspaper  men, 
all  London  notables  of  their  time,  used  to  fore 
gather  there  and  their  pleasant  sayings  and 
doing  crowd  to  my  mind  as  I  turn  the  pages. 

Dr.  Page  would  look  in  at  the  Cavour  on  his 
way  home  from  Buckingham  Palace  or  St. 
James's  Palace  and  show  us  tricks  with  which 
he  had  mystified  King  Edward  and  his  guests. 
How  we  laughed  at  his  stories  of  the  Indian 
or  Persian  Princes  and  other  visiting  poten 
tates  whom  he  was  summoned  to  entertain. 

George  Bull  was  an  inveterate  London  lover, 
and  it  was  my  good  fortune  to  be  his  com 
panion  when  the  mood  served  him — which 
was  nearly  always  late  at  night — to  wander 
the  highways  and  byways  of  historic  London, 
George  lived  in  an  old  house  off  the  Strand 

123 


Memories 


somewhat  close  to  the  river  at  the  back  of  the 
Tivoli  Theatre.  I  remember  going  up  the  dark 
staircase  to  his  rooms,  while  he  touched  the 
ancient  walls  lovingly  and  told  me  their  his 
tory. 

Another  kindly  friend  to  whom  I  am  in 
debted  for  my  understanding  of  London's 
charm  is  Mr.  Morrison,  the  venerable  dra 
matic  critic  of  the  Morning  Post.  Morrison 
would  call  for  me  nightly  at  the  Palace  Thea 
tre,  where  I  was  appearing,  and  together  we 
would  make  our  way  through  a  myriad  of  tiny 
streets  mentally  treading — as  it  were — in  the 
footsteps  of  Oliver  Goldsmith,  the  great  Tur 
ner,,  Dickens  and  others  of  that  ilk. 

Morrison  was  a  mine  of  stories  and  he  would 
turn  from  serious  anecdotes  of  London's  past 
to  screamingly  funny  tales  of  Sir  Henry  Irv- 
ing's  theatricalisms  and  Sir  Beerbohm  Tree's 
absentmindedness. 

The  fact  that  within  a  "stone's  throw"  of 
London  are  many  hallowed  spots  full  of  ro 
mantic  and  historical  traditions  make  a  so 
journ  in  England  a  delightful  experience.  It 
is  possible  to  leave  the  teeming  streets  of  the 
great  metropolis  and  within  a  very  short  time 

124 


Memories 


walk  the  street  of  some  quaint  town  in  an 
atmosphere  of  other  centuries. 

Can  one  imagine  a  more  restful  contrast 
than  the  transition  from  the  jam  of  traffic  on 
Piccadilly  to  a  walled-in  city  still  clinging  to 
its  medieval  ways  and  methods.  A  fine  anti 
dote  to  the  excitement  of  London  is  a  visit  to 
such  old  cities  as  Canterbury  or  York.  A 
stroll  among  what  a  certain  American  called 
the  "worm-eaten"  walls,  gates,  churches  and 
homes,  of  such  ancient  towns,  fills  one  with 
inspiration  and  in  such  surroundings  it  re 
quires  no  great  stretch  of  imagination  men 
tally  to  recall  the  archers  clad  in  armor  and 
leather  jerkins  fighting  behind  the  parapets 
of  the  elevated  castle  walls. 

Among  the  spires  of  towers  of  old  churches 
where  the  curfew  is  rung  nightly  one  can  bring 
to  mind  the  days  when  lamp-bearers  directed 
pilgrims  through  these  same  streets. 

And,  by  the  way,  a  sense  of  humor  is  a  valu 
able  commodity  to  carry  about  with  you  when 
you  visit  the  historical  English  provinces.  In 
one  town  I  had  several  rooms  at  as  many 
quaint  old  inns  pointed  out  to  me  as  "The 
werry  bed,  Guv'nor,  where  Mr.  Dickens  slept, 
sir!"  And  this,  "Guv'nor,  is  the  werry  table 

125 


Memories 


where  Mr.  Dickens  wrote  about  poor,  little 
Nell  and  'Orrible  Bill  Sykes,  sir."  This  sort 
of  information  is  only  fit  to  be  peddled  to 
American  tourists  who  confide  in  the  servants 
that  it  is  their  one  ambition  to  write  to  their 
hometown  folks  in  Superior,  Wis.,  that  they 
slept  in  Dickens's  bed. 

A  regrettable  fact  is  that  the  war  has  elim 
inated — so  I  am  told,  the  old-fashioned 
"slavey" — that  kindly,  poor,  overworked, 
loyal  maid-of-all  work  (nearly  always,  named 
Susan  or  Bridget)  who  toiled  from  early  morn 
till  long  after  midnight  because,  well — because 
as  she  puts  it  herself — she  was  born  to  it. 

Susan  has  graduated  from  the  munition  fac 
tories  to  become  the  wife  of  Tommy,  Anzac 
and  Poilu  and  a  tour  of  the  inns  and  "diggs" 
of  the  provinces  will  no  longer  be  lightened  by 
the  faithful  maid  who  did  a  thousand  and  one 
things  to  make  one  feel  that  she  was  truly 
your  obedient  servant.  Susan  is  a  direct  con 
trast  to  the  provincial  landlady  who  is  de 
scribed  as  an  appetite-destroyer,  for  she  al 
ways  presides  (with  a  mournful  countenance) 
at  meals. 

Before  I  visited  England  I  had  often  read  of 
London's  flower  girl  and  I  had  a  somewhat 

126 


Memories 


ideal  picture  of  her.  My  ideal  was  shattered 
the  very  day  I  was  greeted  by  one  of  them 
with :  "E're  y'are,  Guv'nor — Mime  they're 
only  tup-pence  a  bunch  an'  they  smell  like  a 
bloomin'  'ouse  afire." 

A  woman  scorned  is  not  half  the  fury  that  a 
London  argumentative  cabby  is.  Give  him 
more  than  his  legal  fare,  but  half  what  he  ex 
pected,  and  it  is  a  pleasure  not  unmixed  with 
pain  to  hear  him  "open  up."  I  used  to  "hold 
out"  on  the  cabby  just  for  the  sake  of  listening 
to  his  delicious  vernacular  when  he  was  angry, 
and  only  give  him  the  rest  of  his  money  when 
he  became  intensely  personal.  This  particu 
lar  old  chap,  like  a  creation  of  Keene's,  and 
who  might  have  stepped  from  the  back  num 
bers  of  Punch,  was  grandiloquent  and  tragic 
of  manner  (he  was  a  great  patron  of  the  Pit) 
and  roundly  abused  me  in  the  language  of  the 
hackstand  intermingled  with  a  smattering  of 
"back-stage"  Shakespeare. 

He  often  dubbed  me  a  scurvy  knave,  bit  his 
thumb  at  my  beard,  and  always  wound  up 
with :  "Get  thee  to  a  nunnery." 

Speaking  of  Keene,  London's  streets,  especi 
ally  round  about  the  slums  are  still  full  of 
reminiscences  of  the  great  Punch  artist.  He 

127 


Memories 


and  Phil  May  are  always  in  the  mind  as  one 
wanders  among  the  crowds  so  characteristic 
of  the  poorer  quarters. 

One  day  I  saw  one  of  Keene's  Scotchmen,  a 
stranger  in  London,  with  tarn  o'-shanter  shawl 
and  everything.  If  I  had  run  across  one  of  the 
characters  from  "Alice  in  Wonderland"  I 
couldn't  have  been  more  surprised  and  pleased. 
Up  till  just  before  the  war  it  was  still  a  com 
mon  sight  to  see  Phil  May's  pathetic  groups 
outside  the  same  sordid  "pubs." 

I  do  not  think  I  have  ever  seen  a  sadder 
sight  than  the  groups  of  women,  many  with 
babies  in  their  arms,  waiting  outside  the  gin 
shops  for  their  men  or  boys  to  bring  liquor 
out  to  them. 

These  same  people,  away  from  the  baneful 
influence  of  the  public  house,  and  in  spite  of 
the  poverty  of  their  surroundings,  have  a 
humor  all  their  own.  The  dialect  and  humor 
among  the  negroes  of  a  Southern  street  is  not 
funnier  or  more  delightful  than  the  same  kind 
of  thing  among  the  denizens  of  London's  back 
streets — except  when  it  ends  in  a  "row." 

London  is  a  city  of  types  peculiarly  its  own. 
The  unconventional  looking  musician  so  obvi 
ously  featuring  his  long  hair  and  extra  large 

128 


Memories 


violin  case  would  look  out  of  place  anywhere 
but  here. 

It  might  be  just  as  well  to  pass  over  the 
gruesomeness  of  some  part  of  London's  night 
life.  Somehow  or  other  the  human  derelicts 
cast  upon  the  streets  by  the  surging  throng 
seem  just  as  much  the  sport  of  fate  as  the  flot 
sam  and  jestam  tossed  aside  by  the  murky 
Thames  as  it  races  'neath  its  age-scarred 
bridges. 

Sometimes  it  appears  that  the  shadows  are 
there  but  to  brighten  the  high  lights  on  the 
never-to-be-forgotten  picture  of  one  of  the 
greatest  cities  on  earth. 


129 


A  DICKENSIAN  QUEST 
FOR  PATHOS 

OF  course  it  may  have  been  that  I  sat  up 
in  bed  until  the  early  hours  reading  Dick 
ens,  or  it  may  have  been  the  horror-laden 
evening  paper  I  read  in  the  subway  train 
homeward  bound.  Nevertheless,  I  left  home 
next  day  determined  to  illustrate  and  describe 
some  of  the  shadows  of  a  great  city.  I  ap 
proached  the  task  with  the  enthusiasm  of  a 
high-school  girl  who  had  received  her  first  as 
signment  on  a  local  paper.  But  somehow  or 
other  everything  went  wrong  (or  rather  right) 
and  in  place  of  shadow  I  found  only  sunshine. 

Of  course  I  sought  the  big  railroad  termi 
nals,  where  I  expected  to  find  pathetic  groups 
of  sad-faced  immigrants  dumped  by  a  cru-el 
city  and  unmercifully  left  to  shift  for  them 
selves.  I  found  groups  duly  tagged  and 
stamped,  but  I  was  driven  away  from  them  by 
a  uniformed  man  wrho  explained  that  these  sad 
foreigners  were  not  being  maltreated,  but  were 
being  escorted  to  a  nearby  city  to  work  in  mu 
nition  factories,  and  were  being  "forced"  by  a 
paternal  government  to  accept  from  about 
eleven  to  fifteen  dollars  a  day  in  lieu  of  the 

131 


A  Dickensian  Quest  for 
Pathos 

magnificent  two,  or  two  and  a  quarter,  hitherto 
received. 

After  hanging  about  the  Grand  Central  and 
the  Pennsy  for  some  time  looking  for  "sob- 
stuff,"  it  suddenly  occurred  to  me  that  Dick 
ens  had  me  at  a  disadvantage.  He  looked  for 
his  copy  among  the  century-old  inns  of  fog- 
bedecked  London  whilst  I  had  to  wander 
through  palatial  corridors,  sumptuous  waiting 
rooms  and  magnificent  lounges,  flooded  with 
sunshine  He  was  up  against  Little  Nell  and 
her  poor  relations  whilst  I  was  stalking  a  wise 
and  active  public  who  scoffed  at  alleged  epi 
demics  and  germs  as  German  propaganda. 

Then,  mentally  following  Nancy  Sikes  to 
London  Bridge  where  she  crossed,  followed  by 
Noah  Claypole,  I  walked  to  the  East  River. 
Here  at  least  I  would  find  some  melodrama 
worth  illustrating,  but  instead  of  rotting  tim 
ber,  wharf  rats,  gruesome  saloons — the  cry  of 
some  lost  soul  and  the  quiet  splash  of  a  tired 
body  in  the  still,  muddy  waters — I  found  huge, 
electric-lighted  throbbing  factories,  steel  piers, 
palatial  yachts  and — well,  nothing  like  what 
the  evening  papers  call  "the  seamy  side  of  life." 

132 


A  Dickensian  Quest  for 
Pathos 

But  ah!  I  have  it — there  are  the  city  parks 
after  midnight  There  at  least  I  find  the  shad 
owy  forms  which  sit  and  brood  over  their  sad 
pasts.  So  I  made  my  way  to  a  little  park  right 
in  the  heart  of  the  city.  After  quietly  sketch 
ing  the  sad,  sleeping  old  men  for  nearly  an 
hour  I  was  interrupted  by  the  handsome  police 
man,  who,  leaning  over  my  shoulder  for  fully 
ten  minutes,  said,  "What  are  you  doing,  son — 
making  pictures?"  After  resisting  the  tempta 
tion  to  say,  "No,  I  am  frying  eggs,"  I  told  him 
that  I  was  a  newspaper  artist  depicting  the 
sorrowful  types  of  a  great  city. 

As  I  worked  half  hidden  by  the  friendly 
shadows  of  an  overhanging  tree,  I  read  the 
characters  of  my  sleeping  models  for  the 
friendly  policeman.  "The  man  on  the  end,"  I 
said,  "is  a  broken-hearted  millionaire.  The 
fellow  next  to  him  is — well,  he  looks  as  if  he 
is  too  friendless  to  live — he  has  had  some  great 
misfortune.  The  one  at  the  other  end — well, 
he  is  grieving  over  the  loss  of  some  dear  one 
and—" 

"Grievin'  nothin',"  interrupted  the  chatty 
representative  of  law  and  order,  "I  know  all 
them  guys — they  come  here  every  night."  And 

133 


A  Dickens ian  Quest  for 
Pathos 

then  the  policeman  gave  me  an  outline  of 
strange  occupations  which  are  followed  by  the 
kindly  tired  folk  who  inhabit,  by  permission, 
the  benches  in  the  park. 

One  of  the  sleeping  old  men  was  waiting  for 
the  a.  m.  car.  For  the  last  ten  years  he  has 
been  turning  out  the  lights  in  show  windows  of 
two  blocks  of  stores.  It  is  his  duty  to  wait  till 
the  last  of  the  theatregoers  and  cabaret  crowds 
have  passed  the  windows  homeward  bound. 
He  then  switches  off  the  lights  by  buttons  con 
cealed  in  the  sidewalks  or  walls.  "That  old 
fellow  must  have  about  twelve  thousand  in 
Liberty  bonds,"  said  the  policeman.  "I  know, 
for  I  sold  some  of  them  to  him  myself." 

Another  of  my  models,  according  to  my  talk 
ative  informant,  is  an  all-night  rubber  at  a 
Turkish  bath.  He  is  in  the  habit  of  coming 
over  into  the  park  from  the  baths  across  the 
way — to  cool  off,  as  it  were. 

"And  that  fellow  with  the  hard  hat — look 
out,  he's  lamping  us — he's  got  all  sorts  of 
dough.  Has  three  sons  manufacturing  clothes 
for  the  army.  What's  he  doin'  here?  That's 
his  sons'  factory  over  there — them  three  lofts 
all  lit  up  working  overtime.  He  likes  to  sit 

134 


A  Dickensian  Quest  for 
Pathos 

here  on  hot  nights  watching  the  lofts — that's 
all. 

"You  won't  find  any  night-court  stuff  in  this 
park,  son ;  we  ain't  got  no  bums  here — wouldn't 
let  'em  in — all  good  characters  here  and  well 
known  to  the  police."  I  left  convinced  that — 
in  the  words  of  my  friend  the  "cop" — "Tings 
ain't  wot  dey  seem." 


135 


WORDS  TO  A  CRITIC 

VAUDEVILLE  as  it  is  constituted  today  is 
not  an  art  or  a  science,  but  it  is  a  com 
modity. 

Vast  central  markets  in  New  York — Keith's, 
Orpheum,  Loew,  Fox  and  Moss  circuits — send 
out  acts,  like  butter,  eggs  or  any  other  com 
modity,  to  the  various  shops  (theatres) 
throughout  the  country  fresh  every  week  for 
the  approval  of  its  customers  (audiences) 
and  it  must  necessarily  be  guided  in  its  choice 
of  acts  by  the  demand — as  denoted  by  the  ap 
plause — of  the  aforesaid  customers. 

Now  the  big  men  who  control  the  central 
markets  have  spent  a  lifetime  not  in  studying 
art,  but  in  trying  to  fulfill  the  wants  of  a  huge 
mass  of  customers  of  varying  tastes  with  the 
goods  they  seem  to  like  best. 

The  average  vaudeville  critic  who  writes  for 
the  papers  is,  as  a  rule,  a  highly  educated  in 
dividual,  correct  in  his  opinions  and  just  in 
his  arguments,  but  wrong  in  his  viewpoint,  for 
he  loses  sight  of  the  fact  that  ninety-nine  out 
of  a  hundred  people  who  surround  him  in  an 
audience  are  not  educated  up  to  his  standard, 
which  is  an  ultra-critical  one. 

In  some  cities  the  success  of  a  theatre — per 
haps  representing  a  half-million-dollar  invest- 

137 


Words  to  a  Critic 


ment — is  somewhat  jeopardized  by  a  local 
critic  who  takes  a  delight  ill  thoughtlessly 
"rapping"  the  bill  weekly  without  stopping  to 
consider  that  he  or  his  paper  is  undermining  a 
local  institution  which  is  as  much  a  public  in 
stitution  as  a  certain  restaurant  or  a  well- 
known  dry  goods  store.  Yet  no  critic  ever 
thinks  of  going  into  one  of  these  shops  and  pub 
licly  criticizing  the  coffee  and  eggs  or  the  fur 
niture  and  carpets. 

Perhaps  my  reader  will  quote  that  oft-re 
peated  statement  that  the  theatre  invites  criti 
cism,  etc.  It  does  not;  it  simply  professes  to 
be  a  mental  restaurant  with  a  bill  of  fare  cal 
culated  to  tickle  all  sorts  of  palates.  Many 
restaurant  keepers  are  compelled  to  place  upon 
their  menus  dishes  that  they  would  rather  not 
keep,  but  must,  in  case  they  are  called  for.  A 
theatrical  manager  is  compelled  to  book  acts 
into  his  theatre  which,  in  his  heart  of  hearts, 
he  knows  are  "punk,''  yet  the  audience,  as  de 
noted  by  its  applause,  demands  them. 

Often  the  gallery  shrieks  with  delight  at  an 
act  which  causes  the  people  on  the  orchestra 
floor  to  yawn,  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  the  gal 
lery  will  grow  restless  at  what  the  highbrows 
call  an  intellectual  treat. 

138 


Words  to  a  Critic 


The  critic  is  no  doubt  bored  to  death  at  the 
antics  of  a  couple  of  Dutch  comedians  or  the 
inanities  of  a  colored  team,  yet  the  local  man 
ager — stationed  at  the  exit  doors  after  the 
show — reports  to  his  chiefs  that  two  hundred 
and  fifty  people,  while  passing  out,  expressed 
their  delight  at  some  slap-stick  act,  while  only 
two  people  mentioned  the  high-salaried,  cul 
tured  headliner. 

Sometimes  an  audience  warm  up  to  the  div 
ing  seal  or  the  educated  monkey,  while  it 
scoffs  at  the  "legit"  who  in  tragic  tones  essays 
Hamlet's  soliloquy. 

Many  great  artists,  beloved  of  European 
audiences,  would  not  be  worth  $25  a  week  in 
this  country,  because  American  audiences  do 
not  have  the  same  tastes  as  the  audiences  in 
other  countries.  It  is  a  sad  but  nevertheless 
positive  fact  that  for  hundreds  of  thousands 
of  vaudeville  fans  Mozart,  Mendelssohn  and 
Wagner  are  dead,  while  "Dardanella"  and 
"My  Baby's  Arms"  live.  But  in  spite  of  the 
inanities  of  vaudeville  one  often  finds  beneath 
the  clown's  make-up  an  ex-Harvard  student  or 
an  inventive  genius  who  is  playing  down  to 
the  taste  of  the  masses  for  the  wherewithal  to 
make  good  a  more  serious  ambition. 

139 


Words  to  a  Critic 


There  is  a  great  future  for  the  critic  who 
"discovers"  the  human  side  of  vaudeville  and 
writes  it.  It  takes  all  sorts  of  colors  to  make 
an  artist's  palette,  and  it  takes  all  sorts  of 
acts  to  make  an  appetizing  vaudeville  dish. 
In  a  word,  the  so-called  bad  acts  are  just  as 
necessary  as  the  so-called  good  acts  to  round 
out  a  bill.  Even  then  it  is  not  possible  to 
please  every  one. 


140 


WRITTEN  IN  A 
RESTAURANT 

DID  you  ever  go  into  one  of  those  restau 
rants  where  all  over  the  menu  they  have 
printed  in  red,  "Politeness  Is  Our  One 
Aim/'  or  "Complain  If  You  Are  Not  Suited"? 

I  hate  this  advertised  politeness  which  con 
sists  of  the  floor  manager  apologetically  ap 
proaching  you  just  as  you  have  the  soup  en 
route  to  your  mouth  or  at  half  a  dozen  times 
during  the  course  with  the  query:  "Every 
thing  all  right,  sir?" 

Then  the  proprietor,  washing  his  hands 
with  invisible  soap,  butts  in :  "Nice  weather? 
Not  so  cold  as  it  was" — pause — "think  we'll 
have  some  more  rain?" — pause — "where  do 
you  go  from  here?" — pause — "soup  all  right, 
sir?"  Then  your  waitress  keeps  up  a  running 
conversation,  skillfully  looking  for  replies 
just  as  you  are  about  to  swallow.  Then  you 
finish  the  soup  and  start  the  entree.  By  this 
time  the  floor-walker,  I  cannot  call  him  any 
thing  else,  is  back  on  the  job.  "Lamb  all  right, 
sir?  Looks  like  more  rain." 

"What?    The  lamb?"  you  ask. 

"No !  No,  sir — the  weather."  Here  the  pro 
prietor  gets  another  look-in.  "Meat  to  your 
liking? — Wait,  I'll  get  you  a  little  piece  of 

141 


Written  in  a  Restaurant 

fat,"  and  he  whisks  your  plate  away  just  as 
you  were  severing  a  delicious  piece  of  brown, 
well  done. 

"It's  maddening.  Somehow  or  other  I'd 
rather  have  a  couple  of  hard-boiled  eggs  in  a 
lunch  wagon  than  dine  in  an  "all-polite"  res 
taurant. 


N2 


LEAVES  FROM  MY 
NOTEBOOK 

THE  vaudeville  profession  makes  strange 
dressing-room  mates,  and  oft  on  a  Mon 
day  in  many  quarters  of  the  globe  I  have 
discovered  that  the  man  making  up  his  face 
(opposite  me  in  the  dressing  room)  was  a 
human  being  such  as  I  had  never  met  before. 
Behind  the  mask  of  the  musical  clown,  the 
animal  trainer  or  the  black-face  comedian  one 
is  apt  to  find  the  scholar,  the  thinker  or  the 
philosopher. 

For  weeks  while  traveling  over  a  Western 
(American)  circuit  I  was  the  constant  com 
panion  of  a  Jewish  comedian.  In  the  theatre 
we  would  shriek  at  his  grotesque  make-up  and 
insane  jokes  against  the  race.  He  dropped 
his  insanity  with  his  crepe  whiskers,  and  many 
a  pleasant  hour  I  have  spent,  in  his  dressing- 
room  listening  to  his  stories  of  the  great  Jew 
ish  philosophers.  His  wondrous  knowledge  of 
Jewish  literature  and  tradition  astonished  and 
delighted  me.  Upon  the  stage  this  classic 
scholar  exaggerated  the  racial  characteristics 
of  his  old  father  in  order  to  obtain  money 
wherewith  to  keep  his  parents  in  peace  and 
comfort  for  the  rest  of  their  days.  Before  the 
son  became  popular  as  a  comedian  his  aged 

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parents,  refugees  from  Europe,  stood  by  a 
pushcart  under  the  Williamsburg  Bridge — 
now  they  live  uptown  and  have  a  real  tele 
phone.  The  comedian  at  times  turns  from  a 
dressing  room  discussion  of  classic  Judaism 
to  tell  a  pathetically  humorous  story  of  his 
dad.  "The  old  man  sits  and  admires  that  tele 
phone  by  the  hour,"  he  said.  "He  has  no 
friends  or  acquaintances  to  connect  up  with, 
but  he  religiously  rings  up  each  morning  to 
ask  the  operator  the  time,  though  there  are 
throe  or  four  clocks  in  the  flat." 

During  a  Western  tour  there  was  on  the 
same  bill  an  Englishman — a  tight  rope  per 
former  who  was  an  ardent  student  of  Shakes 
peare.  On  the  lid  inside  his  dressing  room 
trunk  was  pasted  all  the  half-tone  pictures  of 
the  Bard  of  Avon  and  photographs  of  Strat 
ford  that  he  could  collect.  There  wasn't  an 
incident  of  his  everyday  life  in  the  theatre  or 
out  of  it  that  he  could  not  meet  with  an  apt 
quotation  from  his  favorite  author. 

It  was  excruciatingly  funny  to  hear  the 
Shakespearian  roundly  admonishing  his  wife 
(who  assisted  him  in  the  act)  with  quotations 
from  "Taming  of  the  Shrew"  for  neglecting 

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Leaves  from  My  Notebook 

properly  to  resin  the  rope  on  which  he  does  his 
performance. 

Absurd  are  the  many  false  ideas  held  by 
the  "kindly  disposed"  among  the  audience  as 
to  the  private  lives  of  favorite  performers. 
Could  the  average  layman  look  "behind  the 
scenes/'  many  a  foolish  idea  would  quickly 
vanish. 

The  dainty  little  acrobat  (she  of  the  per: 
feet  shape  and  poise,  doing  hair-raising  stunts 
near  the  roof)  is  a  married  woman,  and  carries 
her  husband  and  two  dear  little  kiddies  with 
her.  The  husband  packs  the  apparatus  at  the 
end  of  the  week  and  sees  to  the  transportation, 
etc.  Up  to  ten  minutes  before  and  a  few  min 
utes  after  her  act  she  is  sewing,  knitting,  sew 
ing,  for  she  makes  every  stitch — in  the  the 
atre — that  she  and  the  little  ones  wear. 

And  now  the  sister  act — those  two  dashing, 
agile  creatures  that  set  the  feet  of  the  whole 
audience  patting  to  their  music.  What  a 
merry,  devil-may-care,  thoughtless  couple  of 
creatures !  It  is  not  easy  to  picture  them  do 
ing  anything  else  but  supping  after  the  show 
at  some  rathskeller  with  the  local  sports. 

No  one  could  ever  imagine  that  they  were 
crazy  about  photography  and  that  one  of 

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1 

them  carries  an  expensive  Graflex.  The  shelf 
of  their  wash  basin  in  the  dressing  room 
is  crowded  with  chemicals,  and  between 
shows  they  are  developing  the  morning's  ex 
posures.  Every  now  and  again  they  will  en 
thusiastically  call  all  the  bill  into  their  room 
to  see  some  new  film  that  has  just  been  put 
through.  Hundreds  of  negatives,  carefully 
indexed  in  two  or  three  large  volumes,  testify 
to  their  industry  with  the  camera  the  world 
over.  They  have  "snapped"  everything,  from 
the  'Frisco  earthquake,  the  Cincinnati  floods, 
to  the  Whitechapel  slums  in  London  and 
canals  in  Venice,  and  if  you  ask  them  which 
of  the  pictures  they  like  best  they  will  turn 
to  a  little  page  of  "Snaps  of  the  Farm  Where 
Pop  Is,"  just  outside  of  Stamford,  Conn. 

In  a  certain  popular  animal  act  the  owner 
of  the  act  appeared  upon  the  stage  with  sev 
eral  dangerous  monkeys.  They  required 
much  care  and  watchfulness.  In  this  he  was 
assisted  off  stage  by  his  wife,  a  frail,  soft- 
spoken  little  woman,  and  what  she  didn't 
know  about  monkeys  wasn't  worth  knowing. 
She  would  wash  and  dress  the  dangerous  lit 
tle  beggars  before  the  show  and  undress  and 
feed  them  afterward,  and  between  perform- 

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Leaves  from  My  Notebook 

ances  she  followed  the  profession  of  lantern 
slide  colorist.  She  carried  a  retoucher's  desk, 
which  she  fitted  to  the  window  of  the  dressing 
room,  and  there,  amid  the  screams  and  noxi 
ous  odors  of  her  husband's  pets,  she  would 
apply  the  most  dainty  washes  of  color  imag 
inable  to  her  slides.  Such  was  her  reputation 
at  this  work  that  a  big  New  York  firm  sent 
her  the  whole  of  their  orders  to  execute  on  the 
road. 

Of  course,  it  is  a  well  known  fact  that  many 
cartoonists  who  are  appearing  in  vaudeville 
execute  pages  for  famous  journals  in  their 
dressing  rooms,  and  I  can  mention  the  names 
of  several  performers  who  have  patented  use 
ful  improvements  in  machinery  and  handy 
articles,  ideas  which  were  born  and  worked 
out  'tween  shows  at  the  theatre. 

Lifelong  friendships  are  formed  in  vaude 
ville,  born  of  the  many  experiences  on  the 
road. 

A  group  of  players  waiting  at  a  way 
side  station  hold  an  extemporaneous  concert 
standing  knee  deep  in  the  snow.  The  quar 
tette  sings  ragtime  to  cheer  the  little  shiver 
ing  crowd  and  some  instrumentalist  unpacks 
his  guitar  and  obliges  with  an  obligate.  The 

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Leaves  from  My  Notebook 

ladies  of  the  party  sit  on  their  trunks,  chat 
ting  and  laughing.  By  and  by  word  reaches 
the  station  that  the  express  is  snowed  up  and 
will  be  many  hours  late,  the  station  crew  go 
home,  and  even  the  telegraph  desk  closes 
down.  Every  one  is  despondent  but  the  vaude- 
villians.  They  have  this  experience  so  often. 
There  is  not  even  a  coffee  room  or  a  heating 
stove,  but  the  "bunch"  from  the  show,  as  the 
commercial  puts  it,  just  warm  up  the  waiting 
party  with  music,  song  and  story  and  good 
fellowship  until  train  arrival  means  a  sad 
parting. 

Months  afterward  some  of  the  same  crowd 
meet  far  away — on  the  bill  of  the  Wintergar- 
ten,  Berlin,  perhaps,  or  at  the  Apollo,  Vienna; 
the  Orpheum,  Budapest,  and  Tivoli  Theatre, 
Sydney,  Australia.  You  can  guess  how 
warmly  they  greet  each  other,  until,  after  a 
month's  happy  reunion,  their  routes  separate 
them,  only  to  reunite  them  again  a  year  hence 
in  some  New  England  town.  Over  lunch  in 
Hartford,  New  Haven  or  Springfield  they 
roast  England  and  the  Continent,  telling  each 
other  that  Berlin  is  all  right,  but  "Gee,  them 
foreigners  can't  make  buckwheat  cakes  like 
we  get  them  in  our  home  town." 

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The  Austrian  performer  playing  Des 
Moines,  Iowa,  sighs  for  his  Wiener  schnitzel 
and  Pilsener;  the  English  artist  playing  Salt 
Lake  City  longs  for  his  afternoon  tea,  but  the 
American  playing  Budapest,  Hungary,  gets 
mad  when  he  thinks  of  buckwheat  cakes  and 
coffee. 

The  sunny  nature  of  vaudeville  performers 
is  never  more  in  evidence  than  when  in  a  for 
eign  land.  Kival  acts  who  are  cold  to  each 
other  in  Boston,  Mass.,  send  each  other  flow 
ers  and  a  telegram  for  their  "opening"  in 
Glasgow,  Scotland,  and  professional  jealousy 
has  no  place  "at  the  corner  table"  in  the  cafe 
and  after  the  show,  when  the  casts  from  the 
different  shows  meet  and  talk  "home." 

I  shall  never  forget  a  little  incident  in 
Paris,  France,  when  the  American  acts  play 
ing  there  discovered  a  couple  of  California 
girls  "down  and  out." 

The  girls  were  induced  to  cross  the  pond — 
by  a  foreign  agent — but  arriving  in  Paris 
they  discovered  that  the  "theatre"  they  were 
engaged  to  play  was  worse  than — well,  they 
wouldn't  play  in  it.  When  their  fellow  per 
formers  heard  of  the  plight  of  these  two  girls 
it  didn't  take  long  to  raise  money  enough  to 

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ship  them  back  to  their  native  State  in  com 
fort.  At  the  depot  the  little  band  of  men  and 
women  called  performers  just  pelted  the  de 
parting  ones  with  flowers  and  miniature 
American  flags.  It  was  a  touching  scene,  but 
just  the  thing  expected  of  vaudeville  people 
by  vaudevilliaus. 

Much  has  been  written  of  the  pathetic  side 
of  vaudeville.  I  used  to  imagine  it  was  full 
of  sorrow,  but  now  I  know  better. 

The  average  vaudeville  performer  who  is 
temporarily  laid  off  is  never  despondent.  His 
first  thought  is  to  show  a  brave  front  and  to 
inform  the  world  in  large  type  (per  medium 
of  the  advertising  columns  of  the  theatrical 
press)  that  he  is  "packing  the  houses  out 
West." 

Stranded  in  any  city  of  the  world,  he  pa 
tiently  waits  word  from  his  agent  as  to  where 
he  plays  "next  week."  To  him  "next  week" 
is  only  a  few  hours  off  always,  and,  as  he 
never  grows  older,  "what's  the  difference?" 

As  a  class,  vaudevillians  of  today  are  far 
more  intelligent  and  refined  than  in  the  old 
variety  days.  Then  there  was  no  organization 
and  performers  wandered  the  country  obtain 
ing  engagements  when  and  where  they  could. 

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To-day  vast  circuits  are  managed  from  central 
offices  and  it  is  possible  for  standard  acts  to 
know  their  routes  sixty  weeks  ahead. 

Millions  of  dollars  are  invested  in  vaudeville 
to-day  and  the  men  at  the  head  of  the  business 
insist  upon  influencing  the  moral  standard  of 
their  performers  and  the  moral  standard  of 
their  programs.  Three  of  the  greatest  man 
agers  in  the  field  to-day  post  conspicuously  in 
the  dressing  rooms  of  their  theatres  a  notice 
to  the  following  effect: 

"We  cater  mostly  to  women  and  children 
and  have  invested  much  money  to  do  so. 
Please  eliminate  from  your  performance  all 
vulgar  words  and  actions.  The  use  of  the 
words  damn,  slob,  son-of-a-gun  or  any  refer 
ence  to  questionable  localities  or  an  action 
with  a  double  meaning  mean  absolute  dis 
missal." 

Born  in  the  atmosphere  of  vaudeville  are 
many  stars  whom  the  theatregoing  public  hold 
dear.  Kose  Stahl,  with  her  little  sketch,  paved 
the  way  of  "The  Chorus  Lady"  and  fame  in 
two  continents;  Robert  Hilliard,  though 
originally  from  the  legitimate,  created  his 
great  following  in  vaudeville  and  the  follow 
ing  which  makes  him  the  powerful  drawing 
card  he  is  to-day  in  the  two-dollar  houses. 

151 


IN  A  POLICE  COURT, 
RICHMOND,    VIRGINIA 

ARGARET  MURPHY,  Jessie  Brown, 
Martin  Livingstone,  Harvard  and 
Joe  Grimes,  you  are  charged  by  Officer  Brown 
with  disorderly  conduct.  What  have  you  got 
to  say  about  it?" 

Where  had  I  heard  those  words  and  that 
voice  before?  The  courtroom  seemed  to  fade 
from  my  view  and  I  imagined  for  a  moment 
the  "gilded"  audiences  of  the  London  Palace 
Theatre  rocking  in  their  seats  as  Walter 
Kelly  visualizes  this  very  scene. 

Old  Judge  Crutchfield  is  holding  court  in 
this  grand  old  town  of  Richmond,  Virginia,  as 
he  has  held  it  for  close  on  forty  years,  and  the 
kindly  old  soul,  whose  type  Kelly  has  made 
familiar,  is  dispensing  love — not  justice — not 
according  to  the  law  but  according  to  his  own 
kindly  nature.  "Jessie  Wilcox  Jackson  and 
Damon  Knight  Jackson,  you  are  charged  with 
fist-fighting  on  the  public  highway.  How  long 
have  you  been  married?" 

"Three  days,"  answered  the  battered  couple 
before  the  bar. 

"You  can  make  it  up  and  spend  your  honey 
moon  in  jail — thirty  days,"  said  the  judge  as 

153 


In  a  Police  Court, 
R  ichmond,  Virg  in  ia 

he  expectorated  into  the  cuspidor  and  struck 
the  desk  with  his  gavel  at  the  same  time. 

I  had  to  smile  when  I  mentally  contrasted 
the  horse-hair  jurisprudence  of  an  English 
court  with  Judge  Crutchfield's  adjustment  fac 
tory.  Here,  there  is  not  a  vestige  of  horsehair- 
wig  justice,  no  weighty  law  books,  no  tradi 
tions  or  precedents,  but  just  plain  human  love 
dispensed  by  a  grand  old  man.  A  group  of 
"unfortunates"  were  brought  before  the  judge. 
He  whispered  to  them  to  come  closer  and  speak 
softly,  for  he  was  not  going  to  gratify  the  idle 
curiosity  of  court  habitues  at  the  expense  of 
these  poor  unhappy  creatures  of  the  street. 
The  commonwealth  attorney  made  a  very 
strong  case  against  them,  after  which  Judge 
Crutchfield  chewed  the  cud  of  reflection  for 
quite  a  long  while. 

I  studied  his  face  intently,  his  merry  twin 
kling  eyes,  the  eyes  of  a  boy,  were  struggling 
to  suppress  their  sympathy — while  his  jaw  was 
making  a  pretense,  a  very  poor  pretense,  of 
being  very  severe.  At  last  his  whole  expres 
sion  seemed  to  say :  "Well,  I  suppose  you  are 
God's  own  children  just  the  same  as  any  of  the 
more  fortunate,"  while  his  voice  in  mock  sever- 

154 


In  a  Police  Court, 
Richmond,  Virginia 

ity  rasped  out,  "You  get  out  of  here,  all  of  you, 
and  don't  come  back.  Discharged !" 

To  a  white  prosecutor  who  charged  a  couple 
of  negroes  with  damaging  his  auto,  Judge 
Crutchfield  said :  "How  did  they  damage  your 
machine?"  Well,"  answered  the  aggrieved 
one,  "they  got  in  the  way  and  my  machine 
knocked  one  of  'em  down  and  ran  over  his 
back,  smashing  my " 

"Hey,  wait  a  minute,"  interrupted  the  judge, 
"did  you  say  ran  over  his  back?  That  wouldn't 
smash  your  machine.  Had  you  said  it  ran 
over  the  niggah's  head  I'd  believe  it,  but  over 
his  back,  that's  not  sufficient  evidence.  Dis 
charged  !" 

I  surveyed  the  court  room  from  a  seat  be 
side  the  venerable  judge,  who  had  honored  me 
with  an  invitation.  Such  free  and  easy  justice 
and  such  a  lack  of  unnecessary  dignity  I  have 
never  before  witnessed.  The  whole  scene  could 
be  likened  to  a  carefree  family  gathering.  For 
row  upon  row  of  friendly  spectators  were 
grouped  haphazard  around  the  grand  old 
judge  who  had  a  kind  and  cheery  word  for 
everybody.  Among  the  crowd  I  recognized 
dozens  of  drummers  and  traveling  song-plug- 

155 


In  a  Police  Court, 
R  ichmond,  Virg  in  ia 

gers  from  up  North — all  in  to  "get  the  laughs.'* 
Local  stage  hands,  visiting  minstrel  men,  be 
sides  the  seasoned  local  habitues  gave  the 
unique  atmosphere  to  one  of  the  most  humane 
courtrooms  it  has  been  my  lot  to  visit. 

Presently  the  crowd  around  the  judge  began 
to  break  away  and  make  toward  the  windows 
and  doors.  I  thought  as  lawyers,  court  at 
tendants  and  spectators  rushed  to  the  exits 
that  there  was  a  fight  or  fire  —  but  the 
strains  of  "Over  There!  Over  There"  and  the 
tramp  of  marching  men  softly  humming 
George  Cohan's  latest  song  success,  as  the 
pluggers  would  say,  somewhat  reassured  me. 
It  was  Al  Field's  minstrel  parade  passing. 

The  little  human  tragedies  of  life  were  mo 
mentarily  forgotten.  Old  men  and  boys, 
women  and  girls  waved  their  handkerchiefs 
and  mounted  higher  on  chairs  or  steps  to  catch 
sight  of  Al,  himself,  going  by  in  state.  Joffre, 
as  he  rode  down  Fifth  avenue  receiving  the 
frantic  cheers  of  a  grateful  nation,  could  not 
have  felt  better  than  Al  Field  as  he  rode  down 
the  main  street  of  Richmond,  Virginia. 


156 


ON  THE  ELEVATED 

FATE  (or  was  it  the  booking  office?)  decreed 
that  I  should  ride  on  the  back  platform  of 
the  Lexington  (Brooklyn)  elevated  en 
route  to  play  Keith's  Bushwick. 

The  cars  were  packed  inside  and  my  only 
companion  on  the  bleak  platform  was  a  poor 
little  Jewish  kid  whose  frail,  ill-clad,  ill-nour 
ished  body  seemed  utterly  incapable  of  sup 
porting  his  head. 

His  face  was  old  and  sad  beyond  his  years 
and — well !  it  required  no  great  stretch  of  the 
imagination  to  picture  the  kind  of  mother  who 
bore  him  and  the  poverty  of  his  home  life. 
Every  time  the  train  stopped  I  noticed  that  the 
kid  strained  his  twisted  and  weakened  eyes 
(further  handicapped  by  a  cheap  pair  of  specs) 
to  read  the  names  of  the  stations,  so  I  offered 
to  help  him. 

Soon  I  learned  that  the  boy  spent  nearly 
all  of  his  waking  hours  making  parts  of 
artificial  flowers  and  was  paid  some  miser 
ably  small  sum  per  gross  for  his  labor.  His 
father,  so  he  told  me,  was  killed  in  Eussia  and 
his  mother  came  to  this  country  with  five  small 
children,  all  of  them  "doin'  work  to  help 
mother,  'cos  mother  has  to  go  to  work  too." 

We  reached  Myrtle  avenue  station  and  a 

157 


On  the  Elevated 


crowd  of  book-laden  high  school  boys  jumped 
on  the  back  of  the  platform  and  then  the 
fun  (?)  began.  One  bright  student  with  a 
"Life  of  Abraham  Lincoln"  among  his  books 
let  forth  a  whoop  of  delight  as  he  caught  sight 
of  the  little  Jew.  That  whoop  sounded  to  me 
just  like  the  bay  of  a  bloodhound  as  it  nears 
its  prey. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  little  victim 
was  being  persecuted  as  his  father  and  his 
forefathers  were  persecuted  before  him.  How 
the  enlightened  (?)  students  shrieked  with  de 
light  as  they  pulled  the  cap  from  the  scared 
little  Jew's  head,  pulled  his  hair  and  knocked 
the  specs  from  his  nose.  How  they  shook  with 
laughter  when  the  comedian  of  the  gang- 
there  is  always  a  comedian  (?) — pulled  that 
classic  "Ikey,  shoot  'im  in  der  pants,  der  coat 
pelongs  to  me." 

What  was  I  doing  all  this  time? 

Well,  for  the  moment  I  was  fascinated  by  the 
incident.  I  was  thinking  that  had  I  been  a 
film  director  I  would  have  dissolved  the  scene 
into  a  flashback  of  one  of  the  many  scenes  of 
human  hatred  with  which  the  history  of  the 
world  abounds.  The  faces  of  the  snarling  boys 
on  that  back  platform  would  have  dissolved 

158 


On  the  Elevated 


very  readily  into  the  faces  of  the  hateful  group 
who  surrounded  the  gentle  Christ  as  he  was 
nailed  to  the  cross. 

A  cry  from  the  kid  as  his  cap  was  hurled  to 
the  rails  reminded  me  that  I  should  quit 
dreaming  and  go  to  his  rescue,  but  I  was 
beaten  to  it  by  a  kindly,  bearded  man  in  silk 
hat  and  frock  coat. 

He  stepped  out  from  the  car  with  the 
words,  "Boys,  boys,  it  does  not  seem  pos 
sible  that  real  American  lads  would  stand 
for  such  cowardly  treatment  as  you  are 
giving  this  friendless  little  foreigner."  "Ah, 
take  the  air,"  answered  one  boy,  while  another 
whistled  the  air  of  "Where  did  you  get  that 
hat." 

"Look  here,  boys,"  continued  the  bearded 
stranger.  "I  had  two  boys  of  my  own— 
they  both  died  in  the  war.  They  gave  their 
lives  to  their  country  and  to  you  that  you  may 
continue  to  peacefully  study  in  school.  Both 
my  boys  were  Jews,  just  like  this  little  Jew 
that  you  are  hounding,"  and  then,  as  if  to  hide 
his  emotion,  the  stranger  switched  to  another 
mood  as  he  added :  "If  my  boys  were  here  now 
I'd  bet  they  would  lick  the  stuffing  out  of  any 
of  you." 

159 


On  the  Elevated 


Under  the  spell  of  the  stranger  some 
of  the  students  found  their  better  selves,  while 
the  unruly  ones,  who  were  for  kidding  the 
speaker,  subsided  somewhat. 

"Now,  boys,"  continued  the  stranger,  "I  am 
a  Jewish  doctor  and  I  have  just  come  from  the 
hospital  where  I  spend  my  mornings  operating 
without  hope  of  reward  upon  penniless  Chris 
tians.  If  you  would  like  to  do  something  to 
please  me  quit  teasting  this  poor  little  boy.  If 
you  will  not  do  what  I  ask  for  my  sake  then  do 
it  for  the  sake  of  the  Jewish  scholars  and  phil 
osophers  whose  names  are  on  the  covers  of  the 
text  books  from  which  you  absorb  your  educa 
tion." 

Seemingly  the  doctor  had  won,  for  the 
poor  little  Jew  was  left  alone  and  nothing 
more  was  heard  for  a  few  stations  except  the 
rattle  of  the  train. 

We  reached  Gates  avenue,  where  the  doctor 
and  I  alighted.  The  awed  group  of  students 
watched  him  quietly  until  the  train  began  to 
move  out,  when  the  spell  was  broken  and,  put 
ting  their  fingers  to  their  noses,  they  shouted 
in  derision:  "Where  did  you  get  that  hat?" 
and  "Shoot  'em  in  der  pants,  der  coat  pelongs 
to  me" — then  a  torrent  of  curses  and  abuse 

160 


On  the  Elevated 


directed  toward  the  doctor  from  the  back  plat 
form  were  mercifully  drowned  in  the  roar  of 
the  disappearing  train. 

As  we  passed  along  the  station  platform  the 
doctor  was  by  my  side.  I  spoke  to  him  regret 
fully  of  the  abuse  hurled  at  him  by  the  boys, 
but  he  answered  with  a  smile:  "That  is  the 
sort  of  thing  that  was  hurled  at  Abraham  Lin 
coln  by  the  fathers  of  those  boys.  He  didn't 
complain,  so  what  right  have  I  to  do  so?" 


161 


PETTICOAT  LANE 

LONDON,  July  25,  1920. 

THEY'LL  sell  you  an  article,  then  pick 
your  pocket  of  it,  and  sell  it  to  you 
again  at  a  higher  price  before  you  have 
walked  one  block."  How  often  have  I  heard 
this  romantic  tale  told  all  over  the  world 
about  the  wonderful  thieves  and  vagabonds  of 
Petticoat  Lane.  I  have  always  longed  to  "do" 
the  Lane,  but  mother  (I  call  my  wife  mother) 
begged  me  not  to.  Friends  had  warned  her 
that  one's  life  was  not  safe  down  there,  so  she 
implored  me,  for  her  sake  as  well  as  my  own, 
not  to  risk  it.  Sister  Flo  tried  to  make  mat 
ters  worse  by  telling  me  with  bated  breath 
that  many  people  had  gone  down  there  and 
that  their  bodies  had  never  been  found,  "and," 
she  added,  "in  some  of  the  streets  there  are 
people  who  would  cut  your  throat  as  soon  as 
look  at  you  for  eighteenpence." 

All  this  but  whetted  my  appetite  for  copy. 
So  when  I  finally  decided  to  go  this  morning 
mother  took  my  watch,  my  silk  handkerchief 
and  pocketbook  from  me,  made  me  put  on  my 
oldest  suit  and  hat,  and  walked  with  me  to  the 
Great  Portland  underground  station  to  see  me 
off.  At  the  station  she  gave  me  the  last  few 
words  of  advice.  "Here's  four  shillings,"  she 

163 


Petticoat  Lane 


said,  "that  ought  to  take  you  there  and  back. 
Keep  your  hands  in  your  pockets  all  the  while. 
Don't  let  any  suspicious-looking  characters 
stand  behind  you.  Keep  out  of  crowds.  Don't 
•go  up  any  dark  side  streets  and,  above  all, 
don't  talk  to  strangers.  Telephone  me  when 
you  get  there,  and  telephone  every  hour." 
Then  she  kissed  be  good-by  with  the  same  sort 
of  kiss  that  Mrs.  Livingstone  must  have  given 
her  hubby  when  he  set  off  to  explore  darkest 
Africa. 

Well,  I  left  for  Aldgate  East  with  almost 
empty  pockets  and  a  heart  full  of  misgivings. 
At  first,  upon  arrival  in  Whitechapel,  I  walked 
among  the  seething  masses  (seething  masses 
is  a  good  old  phrase)  of  the  East  End  in  fear 
and  trembling,  but  as  the  hours  passed  in 
safety  I  gathered  courage,  and  slackened  my 
nervous  hold  on  my  precious  four  shillings 
(less  car  fare)  I  pushed  valiantly  into  the 
thickest  of  the  crowds,  and  prayed  that  I 
might  have  my  pocket  picked  just  for  experi 
ence.  But  nothing  happened — that  is,  nothing 
as  violent  as  expected. 

It  was  not  long  before  I  discovered  that  I 
was  in  for  a  day  of  laughs.  Of  course,  the  sor 
did  and  moral  sides  of  Whitechapel  have  been 

164 


Petticoat  Lane 


"written  up"  to  death,  but  I  doubt  if  the  com 
edy  end  has  been  entirely  covered,  for  the 
laughs  down  there  come  fresh  every  hour. 

"'Ere  y'ar!  'Ere  y'ar!"  cried  an  intensely 
Hebraic  young  man  with  a  catarrhal  voice, 
who  presided  over  a  cart  filled  with  shop-worn 
phonograph  records.  "  'Ere  y'ar!  'I'm  F'rever 
Blowin'  Bubbles/  with  'Dere  Ole  Mudder  O' 
Mine'  on  der  udder  shide,  or  'Stop  Yer  Ticklin' 
Jock'  with  Caruso  on  der  re-werse." 

A  phonograph  fixed  on  the  corner  of  the  cart 
played  continuously,  being  operated  and  fed 
with  records  picked  promiscuously  from  the 
heap  by  the  salesman's  little  son.  I  thought 
I  would  have  died  when  a  sailor  in  the  crowd 
asked:  "'Ave  yer  got  Talbot  O'Farrell's 
'Every  Day  You're  Away'"?  "Sure!"  an 
swered  the  man  as  he  took  from  the  machine, 
wrapped  quickly,  and  passed  to  the  sailor  a 
record  he  had  just  played  for  perhaps  the 
fifth  time.  It  was  "Silver  Threads  Amongst 
the  Gold."  "Ve  'ave  ev'ry  thing"  was  the  busi 
ness  cry  of  the  phonograph-record  merchant. 
After  a  few  minutes'  observation  of  his  method 
I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  must  have 
meant,  "We  'have'  everybody,"  for  he  made  it 
a  practice  never  to  turn  away  a  customer. 

165 


Petticoat  Lane 


Many  of  his  trusting  patrons  will  find,  when 
they  reach  home  for  a  quiet  musical  evening 
that  Smith  and  Adams  singing  "I  Wan'  t'  Go 
Back  to  Dixie"  will  deputize  for  the  expected 
Melba  in  "La  Boh£me,"  or  a  damaged  "Where 
Do  the  Flies  Go?  etc.,"  will  fill  the  aching  void 
left  by  the  absence  of  a  bought  and  paid  for 
"John  McCormack." 

Close  by  at  the  corner  I  came  across  a  won 
derful  old  man  selling  collar  buttons.  He 
stood  with  his  back  against  a  lamp-post.  A 
shaft  of  sunlight — for  all  the  world  like  a  spot 
light  purposely  focused  upon  him — gently 
touched  his  pale,  sad  face,  his  flowing  white 
beard  and  his  side  locks.  As  he  stood  there, 
patriarchal  of  mien,  he  almost  reminded  me 
of  one  of  the  grand  old  Biblical  types  so  be 
loved  of  the  old  masters;  but  the  illusion  was 
cruelly  dispelled  by  the  "Charlie  Chaplin" 
bowler  crushed  far  down  upon  his  ears.  By  the 
way,  speaking  of  headgear,  where  do  the  com 
edy  hats  worn  by  many  habitues  of  White- 
chapel  come  from?  I  saw  hats  worn  to-day 
that  would  earn  laughs  enough  to  make  repu 
tations  for  at  least  a  dozen  comedians.  Of 
course,  hats  do  not  monopolize  the  comedy. 
One  old  fellow  selling  blocks  of  salt  wore  a 

166 


Petticoat  Lane 


frock  coat  that  had  been  in  his  family  for 
several  generations. 

Judging  by  its  condition,  his  coat  "was  too 
large  for  the  shelf,  so  it  stood  ninety  years  on 
the  floor."  Years  of  drippings — soap  and 
otherwise — had  tinted  the  lapels  to  the  sub 
dued  fruity  tones  that  one  often  sees  in  the 
sombre  background  of  a  Rubens  or  a  Rem 
brandt.  The  rest  of  the  coat  had  various  intri 
cate  patterns  stained  into  it  by  age  till  it 
looked  like  a  Paisley  shawl  that  had  been  sal 
vaged  from  a  ship  that  sank  with  the  Armada. 

In  direct  contrast  are  the  better  dressed 
younger  men  of  such  fathers,  who  cleverly 
cajole  the  crowd  into  buying.  It  requires  no 
great  stretch  of  imagination  to  picture  these 
very  same  young  fellows  as  future  prominent 
financiers,  mayors  and  leaders  of  cities  in  far 
distant  lands.  I  have  seen  and  heard  many 
self-made  men  in  great  Western  American 
cities  who  started  life  in  much  the  same  way 
as  the  men  I  saw  to-day.  One  does  not  wonder 
at  the  keen  commercial  fighting  instincts  of 
the  race  when  one  sees  the  fierce  scenes  of 
bargaining  among  which  thousands  of  the  chil 
dren  spend  their  lives.  As  I  wandered  aim 
lessly  from  street  to  street,  I  began  to  feel  that 

167 


Petticoat  Lane 


I  was  but  one  of  an  audience  at  the  greatest 
vaudeville  show  on  earth.  Every  street  was  a 
scene,  and  every  stall  was  an  act.  One  of  the 
best  comedy  bits  of  my  afternoon  was  the 
"Dutch  Drops"  stand.  Here  the  proprietor 
stopped  raking  in  the  money  occasionally  to 
read  alleged  telegrams  from  all  over  the  king 
dom.  "Ah !  here's  another  wire  from  Birming 
ham,"  he  would  exclaim  as  he  tore  open  the 
envelope  and  read,  "We  have  just  run  out  of 
Dutch  Drops.  Our  customers  are  clamoring 
for  it.  Send  eight  cases  at  once."  In  quick 
succession  wires  were  delivered  to  him  from 
Liverpool,  Glasgow  and  other  cities,  all  "clam 
oring."  After  the  messages  were  read  sales 
increased  tenfold.  A  lull  in  my  laughs  came 
a  few  moments  later  when  I  found  my  way  into 
the  Great  Synagogue  at  the  corner  of  Brick 
lane  and  Fournier  street.  Here  my  merriment 
turned  to  sorrow  at  the  sight  of  aged  worship 
pers  wrapped  in  Talith,  with  the  Tephilim 
strapped  to  their  foreheads  holding  Mincha 
(afternoon  service).  I  marveled  at  my  peo 
ple  and  the  faith  which  has  come  to  us  from 
the  dim  ages  of  antiquity.  It  is  not  the  place 
to  describe  my  emotions.  Later  in  the  evening 
I  joined  the  throngs  that  made  their  way  to 

168 


Petticoat  Lane 


the  service,  for  to-day  is  the  fast  of  Ab,  com 
memorating  the  destruction  of  the  fall  of  Jeru 
salem  many  centuries  ago. 

Mother  always  says  that  my  sense  of  humor 
will  get  me  into  trouble,  for — as  she  puts  it — 
"it  breaks  out  in  the  wrong  place."  On  leav 
ing  the  synagogue  I  had  to  laugh  almost  out 
right.  There,  before  the  doors,  was  a  pedlar 
selling  four-corners — an  emblem  of  the  faith 
worn  over  the  shoulders  next  to  the  skin  by 
all  pious  Hebrews.  Several  Lascar  seamen 
visiting  the  quarter  surrounded  the  pedlar, 
and  with  shrill  voices  and  wild  gesticulations 
they  were  demanding  an  explanation  of  the 
goods  he  was  offering  for  sale,  a  puzzling  situ 
ation  surely.  Seeking  the  Aldgate  East  Un 
derground  station  to  return  home,  I  got  lost 
in  a  myriad  of  little  by-ways  where  sad-eyed, 
poor  neglected  children  abound — through 
Shepherd's  Place  Arch  into  Tenter  street  I 
went — stopping  to  marvel  at  the  geraniums 
struggling  for  life  on  the  window  sills  of  even 
the  most  squalid  tenements.  Then  taking  a 
wrong  turning  I  found  myself  in  Old  Monta 
gue  street,  where  there  is  a  human  comedy  and 
tragedy  in  every  block.  It  was  here  that  I  saw 
a  young  Jewish  girl  plucking  freshly-killed 

169 


Petticoat  Lane 


fowls.  The  flying  feathers  stuck  to  her  blood- 
bespattered  apron  and  hair;  she  looked  a  most 
gruesome  figure — yet  she  had  the  face  and  eyes 
of  a  Madonna. 

From  Old  Montague  street  I  stumbled  into 
Green  Dragon  Yard,  and  on  my  way  through 
I  peeped  into  some  of  the  places  where  the 
wretched  children  live,  and  I  wondered — fool 
ishly,  I  suppose — if  the  same  God  watched 
over  them  that  watches  over  the  happy  kids  of 
the  West  End.  I  was  pretty  sick  of  squalor 
by  the  time  I  pushed  through  the  narrow  pas 
sage  at  the  bottom  of  Green  Dragon  Yard  into 
Whitechapel  Koad.  Right  opposite  the  yard's 
exit  is  the  Parish  Church  of  Whitechapel. 
Emblazoned  on  the  church's  huge  announce 
ment  board  are  the  words,  "Keep  Your  Face 
to  the  Sunshine  and  the  Shadows  Will  Fall 
Behind  You."— Yes!  That's  what  I  will  try 
to  do. 


170 


PASSERS-BY 


AS  a  youngster  I  used  to  dote  upon  the 
Camera  Obscura — you  know — that  sea 
side  attraction  where  one  enters  a  dark 
ened  room  and  gazes  at  a  ground  glass  upon 
which  passers-by  are  reflected.  What  fun  it 
was  to  study  at  leisure,  without  being  seen, 
the  multifarious  types  unconsciously  posing 
for  our  edification. 

Now  that  I  am  grown  up  I  use,  as  my  cam 
era  obscura  a  certain  spot  on  busy  Broadway. 
My  dark  room  is  the  dim  vestibule  of  a  well- 
known  theatre  (when  there  is  no  performance 
going  on),  and  my  ground  glass  is  the  bit  of 
bright  daylight  framed  by  the  doorway.  The 
photographs  of  the  players  in  a  frame,  and  a 
mirror  at  the  entrance  attract  my  characters 
and  bring  them  close  up,  so  I  am  able, 
like  the  boy  at  the  seaside,  to  view  my  passers- 
by  at  leisure.  The  other  day  I  was  driven 
for  shelter  into  my  darkened  lobby  by  a  heavy 
shower  of  rain,  and  the  time  passed  all  too 
quickly  as  I  pleasantly  occupied  myself  study 
ing  the  human  pageant. 

Look,  here  is  a  stalwart,  smiling  Negro  lad 
in  khaki,  his  right  arm  in  a  sling.  Judging 
by  his  gold  service  stripes  and  his  decoration 
he  had  seen  much  active  service  abroad. 

171 


Passers-by 


Many  bystanders  held  to  the  door  by  the  rain 
address  the  colored  lad  and  offer  him  help  of 
all  kinds.  One  offers  theatre  tickets,  another 
an  auto  ride,  while  a  white-haired  lady  in 
quires  tenderly  whether  he  "hadn't  an  over 
coat  for  such  a  damp  day  as  this."  It's  great 
to  see  what  a  lot  of  people  there  are  trying  to 
be  nice. 

Events  move  quickly  as  the  Negro  boy  "fades 
out."  There  comes  into  focus  a  big  business 
man — well  known  along  Broadway  as  the 
owner  of  many  stores  and  many  imaginary  ail 
ments.  Forbidding  of  mien  and  a  stranger  to 
laughter,  his  one  joy  in  life  is  to  boast  of  the 
many  times  he  has  been  given  up  by  the  "most 
expensive  specialists  in  the  world." 

In  delightful  contrast  is  "Polly"  (which  is 
short  for  Pollyanna),  the  happy  newsboy  of 
the  block.  "Polly"  has  a  smile  and  a  nod  for 
everybody,  and  is  willing  to  trust  everybody — 
yes!  even  to  the  extent  of  five  papers — without 
even  asking  for  name  and  address. 

Here  comes  a  familiar  passer-by.  Another 
of  those  brave  soldier  boys  who  have  faced  un 
told  privations  and  dangers  without  a  whim 
per,  and  is  home  again — but  still  shy  with  the 
girls.  There  is  nothing  of  the  cocksureness 

172 


Passers-by 


of  the  "rounder"  about  the  fellow  who  has 
done  his  "bit"  in  the  trenches,  and  to  see  him 
delightfully  ill  at  ease  in  the  company  of  his 
girl  friend  is  to  know  that  he  is  the  genuine 
article  in  manliness.  He  is  followed  by  a  sailor 
who  has  returned  from  abroad  with  everything 
altered  except  his  fighting  chin.  An  habitue 
of  pool  rooms  and  cabarets  before  America 
went  into  the  war,  Uncle  Sam  has  transformed 
him  into  the  picture  of  neatness  and  self-re 
spect,  and  here  he  is  doing  Broadway  for  the 
first  time  in  his  naval  togs. 

Passing  by  is  a  successful  musical  comedy 
librettist,  who  is  trying  hard  to  hide  the  lov 
able  personality  which  he  possessed — so  his 
friends  say — before  an  avalanche  of  royalties 
almost  overwhelmed  him.  Before  his  first  pro 
duction  he  would  read  his  untried  lyrics  at 
the  club,  while  a  group  of  admiring  fellow 
members  would  surround  him,  screaming  at 
every  couplet.  But  now  success  has  changed 
him.  He  has  deserted  the  clubs  and  strolls 
Broadway,  alone,  his  face  wearing  a  troubled 
look,  and  his  eyes  always  upon  the  ground. 
Some  people  say  he  is  staging  himself  to  look 
like  Napoleon  when  he  spent  the  day  treading 
some  lonely  path  on  St.  Helena ;  others,  with  a 

173 


Passers-by 


knowing  smile,  say  that  it  is  simply  box-office 
success  that  makes  him  act  that  way. 

Here  comes  the  lady  who  is  so  fond  of  the 
mirror,  and  who  seems  to  obtrude  herself  upon 
our  ground  glass  every  few  moments.  First, 
to  adjust  her  hair,  then  her  hat — now  it  is  a 
brooch,  and  again  her  waist — any  excuse  to 
come  back  to  that  mirror  at  the  door. 

A  well-known  producer,  accosted  by  a  sou- 
brette,  who  insists  that  she  would  "be  a  riot" 
if  given  a  chance  in  his  new  play — rival  song 
writers  discussing  current  hits,  and  a  well- 
known  real  estate  agent  who  is  responsible  for 
many  theatre  buildings,  are  among  the  types 
Hashed  upon  my  glass  and  held  there  a  few 
moments  by  the  prevailing  shower.  Oh,  th<> 
"he  said"  and  "she  said"  and  the  "they  saids" 
of  Broadway  that  one  hears  in  the  darkened 
lobby.  Oh,  the  heartbreaks  of  what  is  called 
the  Gay  White  Way.  I  emerge  from  my  hiding 
place  to  talk  to  a  well-known  chronicler  of 
Broadway,  a  columnist  who  has  been  "doing" 
the  "street"  for  many  years. 

"Where  are  the  big  names  of  yesterday?" 
he  asks.  "I've  seen  many  of  them  come  and 
go.  Every  now  and  again  some  new  name  and 
face  flashes  in  the  big  lights,  and  among  the 

174 


Passers-by 


maddening  crowd  only  to  fade  away.  Where 
do  they  all  go  to?  What  has  become  of  So-and- 
so?  You  remember  what  a  big  splash  he  made 
—and,  by  the  way,  where  is  the  little  lady  that 
set  Broadway  on  fire  in — eh!  what  year  was 
it?  And  the  fellow  who  wrote — what  was  the 
name  of  the  play?  I  never  could  make  out 
why  he  didn't  follow  it  up.  The  old  street  is  an 
avenue  of  blasted  hopes,  isn't  it? — well  (with 
a  yawn),  the  rain  has  stopped.  I  must  go  and 
dig  up  some  dope  about  celebrated  people  on 
P.  roadway  for  my  column." 


175 


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